


What In Me Is Dark, Illumine

by sleepylotus



Category: Amelia Peabody - Elizabeth Peters
Genre: F/M, Gentleman Thief, Love Triangle
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-12
Updated: 2018-11-29
Packaged: 2019-03-04 01:38:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 35,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13353795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sleepylotus/pseuds/sleepylotus
Summary: What if Amelia and Emerson had not quite managed to declare their feelings at the end of CotS?Set mid Lion in the Valley, Amelia is bent on capturing the Master Criminal once and for all. However, Sethos has something very different in mind for our favorite female sleuth...





	1. Cursed Tourists

**Author's Note:**

> I adore Emerson and Amelia. I really truly do. But I have such a soft spot for a trickster thief, amongst whom Sethos stands chief among the best. I think he needs a little more fic that ends in his favor, no? :)  
> However, the only possible scenario I could entertain in which Amelia would chose him is thus: Amelia and Emerson are not married in this AU. After their respective meeting in Crocodile on the Sandbank Amelia has become his archeological patron and has accompanied him on digs for every season since. They circle around each other, but neither has taken the plunge to admit deeper feelings for the other, though of course they exist. There’s no universe in which those feelings could not exist. XD E  
> Enter Sethos, the mysterious Master Criminal, whose overtures are a bit unclear if he wishes Amelia harm, or something else entirely…  
> Set mid to end of Lion in the Valley.  
> **I wrote about 20k words on this for nanowrimo, and it's still far from finished. But I thought I might as well post what I have... XD

# I.

 

“I will brook no more interruptions!” bellowed Emerson, his sapphrine blue eyes flashing. Though Amelia had never been intimidated by her colleague’s bellowing, she couldn’t help but admire the spectacle, and take some amusement in the effect it had upon their party of countrymen and Egyptians alike.

He went on, “I intend to get in a full day’s work today and nothing shall stop me. Not meddling aristocrats nor insidious floral distractions from Master Criminals—NOTHING short of a natural disaster of Biblical proportions!” He stomped off, and Amelia watched his impressive form go—sans hat, as usual—admiringly. She felt an acute ache in her breast, as she always did when looking upon Emerson, especially when the archeologist was in his more vitriolic moods.

Though such moods terrified most, it was the state of which Amelia felt he shined brightest, and even made her a little weak in the knees. Not that she would ever display such weakness outwardly, of course. Nay, Amelia Peabody would never succumb to such foolishness as giggling or the womanly vapours, as so many of her sex unfortunately felt necessary to display in the face of such splendid masculinity.

Like any sensible woman, she ignored Emerson’s lordly decree, and finished her breakfast at her own pace. Young Enid Debenham looked torn between tearing off behind Emerson or dispensing with the rest of her tea, and Amelia assured her that the latter would be the perfectly acceptable action.

“Pay him no mind, dear, he’s all bark and very little bite.”

Amelia was in a very good position to know. She had been funding Radcliffe Emerson’s excavations for years, and had joined him on site too. It was an extremely unusual arrangement, to be sure, and certainly fueled unkind tongues to wag in certain circles of society. Facts of which Amelia long ago decided to pay no mind.

She was a spinster, she was rich, and she intended to enjoy herself doing what she loved best: furthering the cause of scholarly study of Egyptology by means of proper excavation.

Gossips could say what they liked, but Amelia did make an effort to keep a lady companion around at most intervals. Somehow they only ever managed to last a single season, for as Emerson put it, Amelia had a talent for meddling in the affairs of these Cursed Young Lovers and seeing them married off by the spring.

Marriage was a state of which Amelia herself had no intention of ever subjecting _herself_ , but she did delight in playing match maker for others who seemed to desire it.

“You are quite the hypocrite, Peabody,” Emerson delighted in telling her, usually while filling his pipe as they sat in the evening after a long day of hard work. “Sentencing these young people to a fate they haven’t the sense to avoid. Not everyone is as intelligent as you and I.”

Amelia knew this was a veiled compliment, and took it as such. “It is true that I would never subject myself to the servitude that is the unfortunate state of marriage in this unenlightened time,” she would purport between sips of whiskey and soda. “But you cannot deny a job well done in others. Just look at Walter and Evelyn!”

Emerson would grumble something about losing his brother on the field of battle and Evelyn’s unfortunate habit of popping out offspring at the impressive rate of one per year, naturally not taking into account that Walter had equal part in this rather impressive demonstration of reproduction. Despite his grousing, Amelia knew that deep down Emerson was happy for his brother, and fond of his ever-multiplying brood of nieces and nephews.

Perhaps Amelia had quite the knack for playing cupid for others, but she herself remained immune to such silliness. That was what she held outwardly, at any rate, whilst keeping her deepest darkest secret close to her armored breast: Amelia Peabody was madly in love with Radcliffe Emerson. A thing of which she would rather _die_ than admit, because she knew that although he esteemed her on highest terms as an academic and excavator, he did not return said softer feelings in any form, and undoubtedly would have laughed her out of the room should she dare reveal them.

Thus, she kept these tender feelings under strictest lock and key, contenting herself with working at the side of the finest Egyptologist of this or any age, assisting him in his academic endeavors and sharing in his archeological triumphs. No other woman could claim themselves so fortunate, and she was very content.

This is what she told herself, when that piercing ache accosted her as she watched him on the dig, his raven locks bare of hat and his shirt open at the throat, sleeves rolled up over those powerful sun-bronzed forearms, and an _unmentionable_ warmth spread from her core to the tips of her fingers and toes.

_She was very content._

Most days, she believed it out of sheer willpower, if not by any other means.

Feeling adequately fortified and ready to face the day, Amelia stood from the breakfast table. “Come Enid, we shall sift the rubbish pile for treasures the men overlooked. You know how they are.” The women followed after their fearless leader at a considerably more practical pace. There really was no reason to go rushing about in the Egyptian heat, which even at that hour was considerable.

Enid and Amelia did justice to their duties, finding several shards of pottery, some even with writing upon them. Though it was important work, one could not exactly call it _exciting_ , and between conversation with Miss Debenham Amelia’s mind wandered. It wandered far more than she liked, but she had trouble stopping herself from thinking of one particular topic: the Master Criminal.

He was an entity of whose existence Emerson had been _adamantly_ opposed to admitting, but after events of last season, a near fatal encounter and the attempted theft of a very valuable pectoral, it could not be denied. Furthermore, Amelia had managed to discover one of his designations in the seedy underworld of black market antiquities: _Sethos_.

The M.C., as Amelia had taken to referring to him, did not seem content to leave them in peace after his defeat last year by that most formidable accoutrement, Amelia’s beloved parasol. Emerson _loathed_ any mention of the man, and indeed would fly into a rage at slightest provocation when Sethos came up in conversation, always at Amelia’s instigation.

“If I did not know any better, Peabody, I would think you _admired_ the man!” Emerson would bellow, infuriated by Amelia’s speculations upon the M.C.’s impressive intelligence, his prowess in the art of disguise, and extraordinary means of eluding capture...

If _she_ did not know any better, one might have mistaken Emerson’s reaction to this subject as _jealousy._

Particularly after viewing his response to a bouquet of red roses bestowed upon her bearing a gold ring, of which Emerson stomped into the ground. Purportedly for her own safety, he claimed, after receiving a superficial cut from the precious piece of metal bearing the pharaoh Sethos’ royal cartouche. He may have even grumbled something about giving his life for hers as he hopped up and down, his considerable weight rendering the posies to a pulp.

But of course, that was preposterous.

Amelia knew that Emerson’s interest in Amelia’s wellbeing was self-serving at best: if she were to meet her demise by means of a poisoned trinket or venomous animal delivered in such a pretty conveyance, Radcliffe would have had a deuce of a time finding someone as competent as she at the task of organizing an expedition and wrangling his own notes into something publishable after the season’s work was done.

However the question still begged: what the devil _did_ Sethos mean by proffering such a lovely bouquet of _red_ roses, and a gold ring bearing his name?

The usual meaning behind such a gesture was certainly even _more_ preposterous than the notion that Emerson could be jealous. Red roses in the language of flowers were indicative of _passionate love—_ a point of useless trivia Amelia was loathe to admit she knew, and even more loathe to admit it inspired an unhelpful flutter of confusing feelings to flit about her belly.

 _Don’t be ridiculous,_ she scolded herself.

The flowers were not a romantic offering. It could be none other than a mean little joke, surely. An ironic gesture to show that he could reach out and find her at any time of the day—his criminal web stretched wide and far. He was no better than a cat who fancied it was toying with its prey. Well, Amelia Peabody would let herself to be prey to no man, not even a Master Criminal. Sethos did not know what he’d bitten off in matching wits with _her,_ mark her words!

Amelia gave her sifting box an emphatic shake with this thought, drawing Enid’s attention from across the rubbish heap. Upon receiving a quizzical look Amelia gave an unaffected air. “Just a fly, my dear, do not mind me.”

Used to her companion’s eccentricities, Enid did not pursue the matter further.

It was nearly time to break for luncheon when a disconcerting sight appeared in the distance.

Tourists.

Or, to be exact in Emerson’s preferred jargon, _Cursed Tourists._

Knowing Emerson would be livid, Amelia rose to intercept them, for their own good.

As the party neared closer she recognized the rider in the lead, an old woman in widow’s weeds tottering back and forth on donkey back. It was the senile old thing that had attempted so rudely to converse with her from across the room at luncheon at Shepheard’s. Her donkey boys rather comically attempted to keep her in the saddle by pushing her back and forth like a pendulum, and Amelia covered her mouth to hide a smile.

“Hallo there!” she hailed, bringing the approaching party to a precipitous halt. “If it is dramatic monuments or brightly painted tombs you seek I fear you have come to the wrong place. I would suggest the pyramids at Giza. Professor Radcliffe Emerson is excavating here and will not welcome intrusion.”

“Professor Radcliffe Emerson don’t own this site,” harped the woman veiled in black, making a perilous dismount from the little donkey. “I reckon I got as much right to see it as anyone. Mrs. Axhammer, by the way, of Des Moines, Iowa.” She produced a piece of paper from a fold of her mourning garb, whipping it open sharply. “I got a list here of all the things I mean to see in Egypt and I ain’t leavin’ till I do. It’ll be easier for you, Miss, to show me around and be done with it.”

Rather taken aback, Amelia stood fast, blinking in the bright noon sun.

“What’s your name?” prompted the old woman, paying a contemptuous glance to her companions. “These here are my nephew and my lady companion, neither of which are worth a durn.”

One glance at the young people sprawled on the sand beside their mounts proved Mrs. Axhammer’s assessment rather apt. Amelia bit back a smile. The Egyptian clime was not for everyone, to be sure.

“I am Miss Amelia Peabody, chief excavation assistant to Professor Emerson.” She didn’t actually _have_ an official title, but it was perfectly descriptive of her role there.

“I seen you at Shepheard’s, dining alone. Most improper.”

“I can think of worse things than a lady partaking refreshment in her own company, Mrs. Axhammer.”

“Ha! Ain’t that the gall-darned truth! The things I’ve heard in Cairo!” Mrs. Axhammer went on at length about the scandals she’d heard of, including the murder of Kalenisheff supposedly perpetrated by Miss Debenham.

The notion was pure balderdash, of course.

Whilst Mrs. Axhammer went on in sordid detail, clearly relishing the scandals of the expat community of Cairo, or at least relishing standing in judgment upon them, she took hold of Amelia’s arm with a surprising strength for an old woman. Her hands were large and her long fingers like iron bands—taken aback, Amelia found herself studying the old woman’s countenance through the haze of her veil, wondering if in fact it was possible Mrs. Axhammer was not a woman at all.

However, in the end her suspicion seemed ill founded, and they made their way towards the pyramid, Mrs. Axhammer yammering all the while. She asked a series of impertinent questions, mostly about Amelia’s relationship with Emerson.

“Pretty peculiar for a woman to be out here in this God-forsaken desert alone with a bunch of dirty men. Not sure how you manage to get away with it.”

Amelia felt her temper rise. “These _dirty men_ are my colleagues, madam, respected academics in their fields, and I do have a lady companion. It is proper enough to suit my purposes. If you haven’t yet guessed, I am a spinster and intend to remain one.”

This only seemed to amuse Mrs. Axhammer, who let out a grating “Heh!” that put Amelia rather in mind of a coughing parrot. “You say that now, missy, but what if someone comes along who tickles your fancy? What will they think?”

“If they were bothered by my habits then I fear they would not be a worthy suitor in any case.”

Amelia went on at length about the pyramid, attempting to distract Axhammer from further questions about Peabody’s personal affairs. The old woman let Amelia lecture for a good bit before interrupting, “Can we go in it?”

“I am not sure that would be advisable for a woman of your… _advanced_ age.”

“Eh, well, you only live once, and besides, I’ve got you with me. What could go wrong? You got a candle handy in that rattletrap of a belt there? Looks like you carry everything but the kitchen sink.”

Amelia did, of course, have a candle handy, and matches too. With an inward sigh she set about lighting one, hoping against hope that this tiresome old jade would take three steps into the dank bat-infested cavern and decide she’d had enough.

As it turned out, Amelia greatly underestimated Mrs. Axhammer’s fortitude, and she plodded on through a great deal of the passage, trailing black skirts through unmentionable amounts of dust, sand, and refuse, ducking in places and dodging bats, until they reached a pitfall and could go no further. The floor dropped a good fifteen feet by their last survey, and a pool of water gathered in the bottom of the recess.

“As you can see, Mrs. Axhammer, this is where the road ends. We would need a rope to continue further.”

Mrs. Axhammer seemed to look around their surroundings appreciatively, her darkly veiled head bobbing as though she were nodding to herself with approval. Amelia couldn’t fathom how she managed to see a thing.

“Perfect. Alone at last.”

The voice that expressed these words was decidedly _not_ aged, or for that matter, even _female_. Amelia was so startled by this unexpected utterance that she could do naught as that large gloved hand lifted to pinch the wick of the candle, extinguishing their only source of light. Before Amelia could retreat a strong arm stole around her waist, and even more to her shock, a mouth pressed to hers.

A rather youthful, firm-lipped mouth, though certain explorations made it evident that these lips, especially the lower one, were pleasantly full.

Though she was a spinster, Amelia was not _completely_ ignorant in the subject of kisses. She had received a few when suddenly she found herself a wealthy heiress and hordes of hopeful gentlemen came moonlighting about, hoping to sweep her off her feet [and gain control of her fortune]. None of these had been _remotely_ memorable compared to the time Emerson himself had taken a liberty during a rather stressful life-or-death situation in a tomb, bullets hailing all around.

Much to her chagrin he never mentioned it, or tried the trick, again.

 _This_ kiss _somewhat_ reminded her of _that_ kiss, if not in force at least in _feeling_. It was sweet and coaxing and yet somehow completely _mastering_. Peabody was not proud to admit that she submitted to it, even a little, but the truth of the matter was that for some infuriatingly inexplicable reason her knees turned to jelly, and if not for those impertinent arms about her person she might have actually _fallen_.

It was she that regained her wits first, drawing back far enough to gasp for breath. As though making up for lost time her mind raced ten-fold the speed of her usual cognitions, which were plenty quick in of themselves, she would note. The evidence mounted in a stream of consciousness before her eyes—the roses—the ring—the disguise.

She could only bring herself to utter one perfectly damning word, and it did not hold nearly the amount of accusation or admonition she meant it to. “ _Sethos_.”

“In the flesh,” said that voice in the darkness, and a chill raced down her spine. It was everything Mrs. Axhammer’s was not. Smooth. Deep. Cultured, though consciously devoid of any nation’s accent. 

Amelia gasped when he pulled her closer, and in the dark she never would have guessed he ported a widow’s weeds. In the dark, there was no mistaking the masculine form that was pressed against her own—tall, lithe, trim, and alarmingly unyielding.

What had she gotten herself into this time?

Well, _she_ was not _entirely_ to blame.

This time.

“Did you like my gift, my darling Miss Peabody?” he asked, and she still couldn’t help but think he was having fun with her.

“I must admit that I think I mistook the spirit of the offering,” she admitted, cursing herself that her voice sounded not near as steady as she wanted it to.

Somehow, even in the dark she knew that he canted his head. Some minute movement of the neck, echoed through his limbs, and well—they were _very_ close. “Is there more than one way to interpret a present of red roses and a gold ring bearing a man’s name?” he asked, and she could hear the notes of amusement in his tone.

“I…rather thought you meant it as a threat.”

He froze for a long moment, before a bark of laughter escaped his lips. “A _threat_? Never! Nothing could be farther from it. Amelia, my darling Amelia, I _adore_ you!”

Amelia stood dumbfounded for a few long moments, a state that needless to say was quite rare for her.

He didn’t want to _kill_ her.

This man, The Master Criminal, that genius of crime, Sethos himself…loved her?

Despite the butterflies that insisted upon fluttering wildly about her insides, curse them, she regained some semblance of sanity.

“You are mad!” Her voice sounded a bit more level, and she took heart. “ _Furthermore_ , how _dare_ you address me so familiarly, and _man-handle_ me in the dark! Let go!” She tried to squirm out of his grasp, but it only won her more laughter, and yet another lock of lips that made speech impossible once again.

Her limbs _may_ have lost some structural integrity once more—even if just a little.

_Just a little._

Even more embarrassing, a small sound akin to a moan escaped her throat. When he released her once more she was reduced to monosyllabic communication. “Cad.”

“Usually I am a man of momentous self-control, Amelia, but you rob me of every iota I possess. You do drive me mad _._ Mad as a hatter—I have thought of little else but you since our little encounter last season.”

Their _encounter_ last season had included Amelia _apparently_ beating Sethos’ cohort senseless with her parasol when he threatened Emerson with a large knife. Though Emerson insisted it happened, and the evidence of the bleeding and unconscious thug lying on the floor had suggested the truth of the matter, Amelia herself did not remember a thing.

“That is _absurd._ We are enemies!” Again she tried to squirm away, and again he tightened his hold. Her heart pounded in her breast—but it was not exactly a result of fear. As usual, that sensible emotion failed her when it might have served her well.

“Must we be?” Again, that teasing warmth entered his tone, and she actually felt herself soften like butter in the sun. Of all the foolish nonsensical… “Amelia—”

“I have _not_ given you leave to use my Christian name!”

He trembled—with mirth? “As you can see I am very bad at asking permission.”

“Yes, I am quite sure you are used to taking what you want. But you will find it is not so easy with Amelia Peabody!” With a burst of strength she struck out with her knee, aiming for a particular portion of the male anatomy that is most vulnerable to attack. By the strangled grunt that escaped Sethos she reckoned she made her mark.

Wiggling free, Amelia got hold of her parasol dangling from her tool belt. She struck out in the dark—but met nothing but air. He must have been prostrate with pain—or ducked. The momentum of the blow sent her reeling in a circle, and when she put down her foot to regain her balance it met nothing but thin air. She felt herself falling, and she was not proud to admit she emitted a cry of alarm.

“Amelia!”

A hand groped for purchase upon her but his fingers only brushed her sleeve and her weight was too far gone over the edge.

She fell, and hit the pool of stagnant water below at such an awkward angle that the breath was knocked from her body. For a moment she lay at the bottom in the sludge, stunned. But soon she regained her wits and Amelia surfaced, spitting out slime.

“You silly baggage, what were you thinking? Are you hurt?” demanded the disembodied voice from above.

“How _dare_ you!” bellowed Amelia, answering the Master Criminal’s question as to her health. “When I get my hands on you…when _Emerson_ gets his hands on you! You will be done for once and for all, sir, mark my words!”

“Oh, no need to bring _him_ into it,” ground out Sethos’, a rather telling thread of heat in his words. A long sigh whooshed in the dark. “Though I suppose I will have to. That pit is fifteen feet deep, there’s no getting you out without a rope.”

“How do _you_ know how deep this pit is?”

He only answered with an insouciant laugh, and Amelia, who felt somewhat possessive of this pyramid, was annoyed that this criminal knew its internal dimensions as well as she did. Instead he asked, “Are you certain you are not hurt, darling?”

“I am _not_ your darling,” she replied with venom, which seemed to satisfy him.

“Very well. I will fetch help, _Miss_ Peabody. Sit tight.”

“How will you make your way in the dark?”

“You’re not the only one with a bag of tricks, dear lady. I could hide a gypsy circus under these skirts. I think I could have managed to pack along a candle.” Again, he sighed, but that note of mirth entered his words again. “Must you _always_ ruin my plans, Miss Peabody? I had intended a much more romantic ending for this _rendez-vous_ than you soaked and covered in pyramid mud.”

The thought of what kind of _ending_ he might have referred to sent an infuriating flush of heat through her limbs. How _dare_ he! When she lifted her hand to push a wet strand of hair from her eyes she found it trembled. “A _rendez-vous_ would imply mutual consent,” Amelia parried coolly, praying her words would not betray her. “ _This_ was an ambush.”

Again, that low laughter like a lion’s growl drifted in the dark, and it raised the gooseflesh along Amelia’s arms.

Still, she was not afraid, though she should have been. She really should have been.

“I suppose it was at that. Next time I will accommodate you in better style.”

“There will be no next time,” she informed him tartly.

“Yes there will, sweetling. That I promise you.”

“Savage!” Left with no other weapon to hand, she attempted to splash him, but doubted the water reached so high. There were no more sounds, and she reckoned he had gone, silent as an efreet in the shadows. He would approach Emerson and the men as Mrs. Axhammer, no doubt, and in all the ruckus of their scrambling to get into the pyramid to rescue her, Sethos would slip away on that absurd little donkey Scott free again.

There was nothing for it but to wait until _next time._

Next time, _she_ would get the drop on _him,_ she promised herself. She would capture him…and bring him to justice! Her lips tingled with the thought, and had her hand not been covered with questionable grime she would have pressed her fingers to them.

Her mouth, where _his_ mouth had only just been.

Good Gad.


	2. Detective Gregson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> However, she had her parasol in hand, a pistol in her pocket, and the heart of a lioness. Amelia felt well-prepared to face anything that might come her way.
> 
> Also…she really didn’t think Gregson was anything other than what he claimed to be.
> 
> She considered herself an excellent judge of character, and… she liked him, rather a lot.

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/34100073@N03/25970779048/in/dateposted-public/)

# II. Detective Gregson

 

In the end she did not tell Emerson of her encounter with Sethos. It was a deception on her part, to be sure, yet the pure _embarrassment_ inherent in the details of that skirmish made her hold her tongue. Emerson had ranted enough as it was without adding master criminals taking her unawares or illicit kisses into the mélange. Such tidbits would have made the man’s head explode, she felt certain.

Amelia maintained that while showing Mrs. Axhammer the pyramid she had slipped and fallen. Emerson himself had pulled her up, sans assistance, by means of a rope. His impressive strength never failed to take her breath away, and he’d even gone so far as clutching her close for a scant three seconds and grumbled under his breath before shaking her and subjecting her to a barrage of admonishments for being careless, foolhardy, etc.

Any true friend would react as such, she reminded herself, and despite his temper she knew Emerson was her true friend, and did care for her well-being.

That was why she had also not disclosed the true purpose of her visit to Cairo that day. As soon as she’d mentioned the desire to go to the city and the need for more supplies he waved her off, not wanting the details, for he had important work to do and so on and so forth.

So did she.

A veritable mission, and she would not rest until she had accomplished her objective: capture the Master Criminal.

Sitting in a café, she awaited a sympathetic comrade to her cause, the detective Tobias Gregson, who had sent a communique to the camp at Dahshoor requesting her company in following up on a promising lead.

Her tea grew cold as she waited, her fingers absently running over the contours of that damnable gold ring. She knew the hieroglyphs by touch now; she could have read them in the dark as a blind man reads brail.

_Sethos._

Damn that man! The audacious cad! The deucedly clever, infuriatingly cocksure, unspeakably bold…

Her lips tingled again, the way they had been for _days_ since their encounter in the pyramid. Absently she lifted her hand to them, and the cool press of fine metal helped quench the uncomfortable heat that flushed across her skin. In that moment it was impossible not to think of how that fit strong body had felt pressed against hers, that arm like a band of iron about her waist, and that infuriating mouth upon…

“Miss Peabody, you came!”

This happy exclamation woke her from her brown study. Realizing how ridiculous she must look, her lips pressed to that lover’s token, she immediately tore her hand away.

She had only brought it with her with the intention of haunting the shops in the thin hope of finding the party responsible for making it. Surely it was a fake…and with any luck the manufacturer was here in Cairo. Perhaps with a little intimidation, the brandishing of her parasol, and the imposing form of Gregson behind her, she might drum up a clue.

“Detective Gregson. Good afternoon.” The tall man in a tweed suit beamed down at her, and for a moment her heart seemed to stutter in her chest. She had forgotten how very good looking this man was, and his smile softened his hawk-like countenance, a twinkle entering eyes that were shielded from the sun behind violet lenses. Immediately Amelia scolded herself for this fancy.

What the devil was _wrong_ with her?

He took her hand, clearly proffered for a hand shake, and turned it to press his lips briefly to her knuckles. Another thrill jetted down her arm, and Amelia reckoned she must be losing her mind. She was _never_ so overly sensitive to male attentions. Usually she found the sad creatures to be silly nuisances at best, and _certainly_ never allowed them to unsettle her to any noticeable degree…

Good Gad.

“You are looking well today, Miss Peabody. How that costume becomes you!” complimented Gregson, seemingly reluctant to release her hand from his long-fingered grasp. But in the end he seated himself before her, and gave the hovering waiter a quick order for coffee.

“You are kind, Detective. I did not realize you speak Arabic?”

“Only enough to avoid starvation and total bankruptcy,” he quipped with a small smile, and thus demonstrated the phrase _the price is too high._

His accent needed work, and Amelia corrected his enunciation. Good naturedly he took her instruction, repeating the phrase several times before getting the right inflection.

Gregson’s coffee arrived, a small cup of thick dark brew, and they chatted over their beverages as the crowds milled by. “I confess I was not sure you would come,” admitted Gregson. “I know many ladies find it improper to patronize cafés.”

“I am not sure it is the ladies who find it improper, but society as a whole that levies such ridiculous restrictions upon my sex. However, you will find I pay little mind to such impositions.”

“I am very glad, Miss Peabody. You are a credit to females everywhere.”

Amelia did not consider herself particularly susceptible to flattery, but his words of esteem kindled a surprising warmth in her breast. “I must admit I am not used to men taking my side in such matters.”

“Indeed? Professor Emerson does not support your views?”

“Oh, I do not refer to him, but Professor Emerson is a most exceptional specimen.”

At hearing this Detective Gregson’s jaw seemed to clench, but the gesture was there and gone so quickly Amelia decided to think nothing of it. “That is certainly a desirable attribute in a colleague with whom you share close quarters.”

Amelia quirked one dark eyebrow, wondering if the Detective was insinuating something. “Only in a professional capacity, I assure you.”

Gregson had the grace to look embarrassed. “Of course, I did not mean to imply—”

“Think nothing of it.” Amelia was well used to dealing with speculation as to the nature of her dealings with Professor Emerson and considered the matter closed.

“At any rate,” said Gregson, clearing his throat. “You are quite right to do as you please, when the rules of society are so foolish. One must take what one wants in this world; one’s oppressors will never hand it to you gladly.”

This speech struck a poignant note in Amelia, and she nodded. “Quite right, Detective. Now then. Who is this contact who may have information about our friend the Master Criminal?”

Gregson’s smile could be termed as none other than wolfish in that moment. It quickened her heart, and she reckoned this detective was as keen to capture Sethos as she was. Extracting a gold pocket watch, he checked the time, nodding to himself. “We should leave now if we are to make our assignation on time, Miss Peabody. Are you ready to depart?”

Eager to follow the spore, Amelia leapt to her feet, brandishing her parasol. “Lead on!”

With an amused smile Gregson tossed some coins onto the table, and did just that.

Do not think, Dear Reader, that Amelia rushed in where angels fear to tread without the slightest inkling of the possibility that Detective Gregson could perhaps be a cohort of the Master Criminal. Despite his height and athletic build, it _was_ impossible, of course, that Gregson could be the MC Himself, for his eyes were some shade of hazel green, as far as she could tell behind those tinted glasses. Certainly _not_ brown-black, as the priest’s of Mazgunah had been.

However, she had her parasol in hand, a pistol in her pocket, and the heart of a lioness. Amelia felt well-prepared to face anything that might come her way.

Also…she really didn’t _think_ Gregson was anything other than what he claimed to be.

She considered herself an excellent judge of character, and… she liked him, rather a lot.

Amelia followed Gregson through the winding streets and alleys of Cairo, until they found themselves deep in the heart of the old city. The buildings towered high above, almost touching at their tops, wooden balconies and hanging laundry blocking out much of the sun. It was an area Amelia herself was not terribly familiar with, but she trusted Gregson knew where he was going. His long legged stride was confident as he wended through the detritus and puddles of refuse.

A rather large one of the latter caused him to pause and hold out his hand, and Amelia found herself taking it without hesitation, allowing him to help her around the puddle. He did not release her when the obstacle was traversed, keeping her close in what was certainly a very seedy part of this ancient city. His hand was warm and a bit rough, proving he was no stranger to action. His fingers were long and strong woven with hers, and despite the slight impropriety she found she felt perfectly safe in his company.

On they went, and as a cloud scudded across the sun the alley suddenly became very dark. Amelia’s grip upon Gregson’s hand tightened, and by the curve of his cheek she could tell he smiled. “Never fear, my darling Amelia. You are safe with _me.”_

The voice was that of Detective Gregson’s, and yet the _cadence_ —the revelation hit her like a lightning bolt, and suddenly she _knew._

Immediately she dug in her heels and reached for her parasol.

Sethos, however, was quicker, and caught her other hand in his. “Oh dear, none of that again if you please. I fear I would not survive it this time.” The note of teasing in his tone only served to stoke her ire.

“ _Unhand_ me.”

His lower lip—a rather well made appendage, Amelia had cause to notice, extended in a pout. “Oh, _now_ you take exception. I thought you liked Detective Gregson?”

“I did. But you, _Sethos,_ are a different creature entirely. Cad.”

“I admit I may have let myself get _a tad_ carried away with you our last meeting. Forgive me, Amelia.”

“ _Carried away_? You assaulted me!”

He only laughed. “ _Assaulted_ you? I doth protest! I _kissed_ you, and I am delighted to point out, you kissed me _back._ Then _you_ assaulted _me._ ”

“As you well deserved!” A sound of exasperated rage escaped her that might have made the Father of Curses proud. Only part of her annoyance lay in the fact that he was partially correct.

“I did. Consider us even.”

“Hardly!”

Amelia looked about, hoping someone nearby might be able to come to her assistance. However, the alley was empty. Perhaps someone inside the buildings might come to her aid? She drew in a deep breath, intending to let loose a shout. Anticipating her perfectly, one of those large hands flew up to clap over her mouth. The other, with unnerving ease, held both her hands hostage behind her back.

She struggled, but to no avail.

“You are certainly stronger than _Detective Gregson_ looked,” she sniped.

“ _Detective Gregson_ would be wounded,” he teased in a tone that was entirely too flippant for the actions taking place. “Now then, my dear—”

“Emerson will find me.”

It was the first thing she said that managed to unsettle the MC, his mouth curling in a sneer. “Do refrain from mentioning that irritating man if you please, Amelia.”

“I simply speak the truth.”

“Here is a truth. He won’t even notice you’re gone until well past quitting time on the dig.”

Amelia’s spirits fell, for she reckoned he was right on that score. Nothing distracted Emerson from work.

Especially not her.

Though she did not think she exhibited her disappointment outwardly, somehow Sethos seemed all too aware of her innermost cognitions. His hand lifted from her mouth to caress her cheek. “Forget him, my love. He never deserved you.”

This statement so took Amelia by surprise that it did not even occur to her to resist as once more he lowered his mouth to hers.

She only kissed him back as a matter of pure reflex.

It certainly had _nothing_ to do with the fissure his words rent in her heart, or the fact that his clever mouth on hers seemed to soothe her pain as balm on a wound.

Those long fingers made their way back into her wiry black curls, finding a tender patch of skin behind her ear. There was a slight pressure, and then the world went dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you ever so much for your comments, they absolutely make my day! 
> 
> Also...you can find me on Tumblr as he-shall-thunder . Amelia Peabody blog, somewhat Sethos-centric, and sometimes I even make things. XD


	3. Virtue In Her Shape, How Lovely

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Could you shoot me, Amelia?” That teasing note entered his words again, his mouth curled up at the corners. 
> 
> “If you think I couldn’t then why bother removing the pistol?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tee hee apologies for my little photo set, i've been making them for chapter posts on tumblr and decided to share them here too XD.
> 
> obviously my posting schedule is a bit erratic. basically its whenever I have some spare time to myself to play on the comp, which is fleeting. a fangirl must carpe diem when she can! XD

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/34100073@N03/39811866832/in/dateposted-public/)

# III. Virtue In Her Shape, How Lovely

 

 

When first Amelia woke she felt certain she must be in the throws of a dream. For she had been in this room before, in a dream. The setting matched her mind’s constructions entirely, from the marble floor to the tinkling Moorish fountain, the arched doorways and carved wood screens upon the windows.

She was seated upon a rather large and lavishly appointed divan, bright embroidered pillows strewn about. Upon a nearby table, its pretty top inlaid with ivory and ebony geometric designs, sat a crystal carafe of water.

Though she was thirsty, Amelia dared not reach for it.

A slight motion drew her attention to the foot of the divan. Sethos himself was seated in a chair, still somewhat attired as Detective Gregson, minus his tweed jacket and cap. He had unbuttoned his shirt at the throat, and shirtsleeves were rolled up over powerful forearms, displaying appendages nearly as impressive as those of Emerson’s. It always moved her to see Emerson go about the dig dressed in such a manner; she told herself that it was the only reason she may have stared a bit too long at the man before her.

“What the devil did you do to me?” demanded Amelia, rubbing the spot behind her ear where his fingers had last touched.

“My bag of tricks runs deep, my darling girl. I trust you are feeling no prolonged effects?”

She wasn’t, and she would be damned if she feigned injury for no good cause but sympathy. Taking her silence as affirmation, Sethos dared to join her upon the divan, seating himself at her feet. In point of course she curled up as tightly as she could upon the opposite end of the divan, earning a small smile.

The Master Criminal held up his hands in a gesture of peace, no doubt hoping to put her at ease. She would not be so foolish to be caught off guard again. Her gaze strayed down to her tool belt, which was now empty about her waist.

Curse it.

“I fear I took the liberty to remove your pistol too.”

“That is a shame.”

“Could you shoot me, Amelia?” That teasing note entered his words again, his mouth curled up at the corners.

“If you think I couldn’t then why bother removing the pistol?” she quipped pithily.

This earned her a low rumble of laughter, a sound she recognized from the pitch black depths of the pyramid at Dahshoor. It did something… _strange_ to her insides. Something utterly unmentionable, and she shifted uneasily upon the divan.

“You truly are a marvelous woman. I would put nothing past you.”

“Nor should you, when it comes to the subject of my personal freedom. I suppose this is the part where you deride me for trusting in Detective Gregson and falling for your ruse?”

“Not at all, dearest Amelia. I am, in fact, quite pleased that you trusted me. Your instincts were correct as to my intentions, no matter my guise. I would never hurt you.”

“Aside from rendering me unconscious and holding me against my will?”

He spread those elegant long-fingered hands wide. “Be that as it may, you are unharmed.”

“You cannot keep me here indefinitely. Emerson knows this city like the back of his hand, and he will find me eventually.”

Sethos raised an eyebrow, his expression stony at the mention of Emerson once more. “Perhaps he does know this city well, but as of tomorrow that will be no help to him. We will depart for more secure quarters.”

“ _Secure quarters_?” sniped Amelia skeptically.

“My villa, with every luxury you could possibly wish for. I did promise you I would keep you in better style than a dank pyramid next time, did I not?”

A thrill of fear coursed through Amelia, and she bowed her head so that he would not read it upon her face. He was _serious,_ and should he manage to take her away to some remote hideaway…Emerson may never find her. For despite his distraction with Egyptological matters, she really did believe Emerson would make the effort, eventually.

“You will like it, I promise,” Sethos went on, as though afraid to let the silence draw on too long. “Airy rooms, gardens where you may wander, and my personal collection of antiquities. That should interest you very much, Amelia. I have an eye for beauty—I keep the best pieces for myself.”

His meaning was not lost on Amelia, and she could feel the weight of his gaze upon her. She dared lift her eyes to his, and something like an electric shock coursed through her.

“Good gad, but you have a silver tongue,” spat Amelia, annoyed with herself as much as she was him. “Compliment my intellect or my fortitude and I may believe you, but I am no beauty and I well know it.”

Sethos laughed, which was not the reaction she expected to her words. Those straight white teeth flashed in an open smile, and once more that day she was struck by how handsome he was. “ _Amelia_. Surely you, of all people, do not believe that the fair-haired pink-cheeked English rose is the only acceptable ideal of beauty in this world? Your flashing grey eyes like thunderheads, your thick hair dark as a raven’s wing—oh my darling, you drive me to distraction. I will refrain from giving my opinion of your figure, which is exceedingly favorable, until we are better acquainted.”

He sat up as he spoke, seeming to near closer as though drawn by the attributes he named with such relish, and in return Amelia sat farther back on the divan. As though he only just recognized his own actions Sethos quickly retreated, going so far as to quit the divan to go stand by the lattice screened windows. The filtered light framed his fit form like a halo—no doubt he calculated the effect, Amelia thought with equal parts intrigue and bitterness.

“Forgive my tirade, it is a subject I am passionate about,” he offered with a small smile. “Please believe me when I say you need never fear me, Amelia.”

Amelia said nothing, letting him stew a little, the cad. The handsome, charming, gallant, poetic… _cad_. She must not forget it, or herself.

Again his eyes travelled over her form, a small sigh escaping from between his teeth. “I must make a request of you, Amelia. Though I did remove your pistol, for it was impossible to miss due to its weight, I did not search you further. I fear what you might be hiding in those voluminous Turkish trousers. I would ask you to change.”

“Into what?” His eyes strayed to an ensemble of gauzy clothing upon a pouf, the semi-transparent _shinityan_ trousers and _antree_ vest favored by women of the harem. Her eyes widened with surprise and indignation. “Surely you jest!”

“I fear not. You could be hiding a set of carving knives in all those folds of fabric. I do not trust your resourcefulness.”

“I give you my word I have no more knives on my person.”

“I will be certain of it, one way or another, dearest. I cannot say I wouldn’t _enjoy_ manhandling you a little more, but I fear it would ruin your good opinion of me.”

“ _Cad_!”

He only chuckled in response, and went towards a curtain against the wall. He paused, thoughtfully turning back to regard her. In perfect French he recited, “Let down your tresses, oh my beloved, that their perfumed splendour may be the only barrier between your ecstasy and mine.”

Amelia felt a warm flush spread through her body, and gape mouthed she watched him disappear through a secret door.

Amelia fought to calm her heart that pounded in her chest. Perhaps it was best not to give him an excuse to put hands on her any further… With a chuckle she machinated that these flimsy garments would not have the desired effect once she had her say.

She changed quickly, and took the remainder of the time, her heart pounding, to shove little by little her pink flannel belt through the small hole in the wooden screen, so that it would hang like a flag out the window. Maybe, just maybe, if Emerson came looking for her, he would see it…

It seemed unlikely, but she had to try. Emerson was so absorbed in the work at Dahshoor that it might be days before he even realized she was gone, she reckoned.

By the time Sethos returned, knocking once before re-entering, with a servant who stood nearly seven feet tall in tow, Amelia was seated once more on the divan, doing her best to effect both innocence and displeasure with her current attire. Her stormy expression only seemed to amuse Sethos more, as did her costume. The flimsy garments were not so alluring, or so Amelia thought, with her sensible if not pretty white cotton combinations underneath.

“Not _quite_ what I had expected, but it will do,” said the Master Criminal, clearly trying not to laugh.

The giant held a galleried silver tray filled a gorgeous engraved copper pot and bright little glasses filled with mint leaves, and set it down upon a low table. In addition it held an entrancing array of sandwiches and sweets, and Amelia grimaced as involuntarily her stomach rumbled. It was nearly tea time surely, the sun’s rays through the screens had the tactile golden look of late afternoon in the desert.

“I imagine you must be hungry? Come sit by me,” invited Sethos, lowering himself beside the table filled with delectable comestibles.

For a long time Amelia did not move, only watched him partake of the plates bit by bit. In the end, however, it was the plate of cucumber sandwiches that did her in, and her stomach had the final say.

How did he know?

She sat down as far away as was possible while still being able to reach the tray. Sethos smiled at her antics but did not protest.

Yet.

“You must have more questions,” he prompted gently as he poured the tea in the gilded glasses, eager to fill the air with conversation again. “I know you are curious as a cat.”

Amelia savored a bite of a cucumber sandwich, the soft buttered bread and crisp vegetable filling lifting her mood considerably. Her tone as she addressed him was practically singsong: “I must admit that I am puzzled by the very heart of this caper.”

“What do you mean?”

“How is it possible you do not hate me?” she asked bluntly. “I have made it my business to thwart you at every turn.”

Sethos only responded with a wide smile. “What you say is true, my dear Amelia, but I enjoy a challenge. Before you I always regarded the softer feelings as a nuisance, a tool at best. But my affection for you came upon me like a sandstorm. You stole my heart when you routed me and my henchmen with nothing but your formidable parasol last season. You are the most singular lady I have ever met, and I have been able to think of little else but winning you to my side since.”

Amelia, for once, was struck dumb by this confession.

“Well. That is certainly…a _unique_ declaration, Mr. Sethos.”

He laughed out loud at the use of his nom de guerre with the honorific prefix. “Please. Just Sethos will do, if you insist on using it. It sounds a bit ridiculous otherwise, does it not?”

Amelia raised one dark brow. “Is there another name you would prefer I used?”

With a chuckle Sethos leaned back upon a bolster, looking as at ease as a large cat who has caught a long-coveted mouse. “I would like to tell you my real name, Amelia. I would like to reveal everything to you—to be _known_ by you. In good time, if things go as I hope, I will. Until then, I suppose Sethos will do nicely. Unless of course you _prefer_ to call me the Master.” The twinkle in his ambiguously colored eyes was infectious, and Amelia couldn’t stop the corner of her mouth from twitching.

Not bloody likely.

“And enlighten me as to your meaning, when you say _if things go as you hope._ ”

Immediately his expression softened, and in kind Amelia felt her heart quicken in her chest. “I _hope,_ my dearest Amelia, that you will come to love me, as I love you.”

She left off insisting that was preposterous. She believed that he meant what he said now, as inexplicable as the attachment was to her. As far as the possibility of her own sentiments softening in his favor…well. She should have hated him. Any sensible woman would have. In just the past week he had manhandled her, stolen her kisses, made a fool of her by parading in disguise under her nose, and _kidnapped her_!

She didn’t hate him. In fact, she rather…

Good Gad.

Could softer feelings come about in weeks of close proximity with such a handsome man, filled with sweet gestures and soft words and an exotic locale… It was understandable why Sethos felt the outlook leaned in his favor.

Emerson needed to hurry.

The man seemed to take her pensive silence as encouragement, and dared scoot closer. “You have not tried the baklava,” he said, reaching for the sweet tidbit on the silver tray. “It is heavenly, I assure you.”

He held it up in offering, and a few long moments of pregnant silence passed before Amelia opened her mouth, allowing him to place the morsel on her tongue. Just the very tips of his honey-sweetened fingers touched her lips, and a damning thrill jetted through her insides for the heady sensation.

Like a mouse caught in the cobra’s deadly gaze, she could not look away as he laved the honey from his own digits, seeming to relish the place where their skin had touched the most. Amelia studied his eyes, and even from this close she could not tell if they were green or brown. How did he manage to make his irises nearly black last season at Mazgunah? Emboldened by her curiosity, Amelia gently removed the violet tinted sun-spectacles from his prominent nose. He let her, raising no objection to her closer inspection.

“How did you do it?” she mused softly, studying his eyes that were certainly green. Weren’t they? But no, from another angle, they seemed almost coppery brown. She frowned.

“Do what, my lady?” he asked, in equally hushed tones. Their proximity seemed to demand a lesser volume of speech.

“Make your eyes black, when you were the priest? I swear, your eyes were a very dark brown then.”

A slow smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. “One of many tricks of my trade. I would not be boasting too much to proclaim myself a master of the art of disguise.”

Amelia could not contradict this statement, though she dearly wanted to. The truth was that he fooled her well and good, in several guises.

“You will not divulge it to me?” The question was driving her mad. Her curious explorations shifted to his nose, and upon closer inspection she could see a strip of prosthetic had been applied to the top of it, giving his profile a more hawk-like silhouette than perhaps his true snout presented. It was expertly applied and only from extremely close quarters could it be detected.

An inquiring touch travelled to his high cheekbone, a very attractive attribute that perhaps would have made for a favorable prosthetic. But no, that seemed to be perfectly his own. His eyes slipped closed, lulled by her gentle touch, and his lashes lay like black lace upon his cheeks. They were lovely as a girl’s, and she felt certain they were real as well.

“Belladonna,” he finally answered. “The ladies of Italy once used it in their beauty regimens. It dilates the pupils extremely wide, making one’s eyes appear black.”

“But that is poison!” Amelia exclaimed, surprising herself with her own dismay. “You mustn’t use that, you will do yourself harm.”

The cheek she had been examining rounded with a smile. “You care so much for my well-being? Amelia, you move me.”

“I would give the same advice to anyone,” she grumbled. “It is extremely foolhardy to use such dangerous substances.”

“I use it in very small doses, and only once in a while. Besides, I never thought I would live long enough for it to matter,” he admitted. “I never really cared for my own longevity, before you, Amelia.”

“That’s ridiculous. Every man cares for his own longevity,” she insisted, next moving to inspect his sideburn. It appeared to be glued on, and she tugged a little at the edge of it.

Sethos winced, laughing a little. “I fear that will take soaking in hot water to remove, darling, have mercy on me.”

She couldn’t help it. Amelia smiled in return, and turned her attention to his hair. Though it was fair it had obviously been dyed. Dark roots showed through with close examination. “Your true hair is dark,” she concluded, lifting a lock in her fingers. “Nearly black in color.”

A long shaking sigh escaped the man before her. Perhaps he felt emboldened for she seemed to have no compunctions with touching _him,_ Sethos lifted a hand to cup her cheek, the blade of his thumb caressing its curve gently.  “You are astute, Amelia. Perhaps too clever for your own good. Am I making a mistake, allowing you to come so close? _Abashed the devil stood and felt how awful goodness is and saw Virtue in her shape how lovely: and pined his loss._ You could redeem me, Amelia. You, only _you_ , could prove my salvation.”

Usually Milton was not the most romantic choice for a suitor to quote from beneath a lover’s respective balcony, and yet no verse could have moved her more in that moment. In the shadows of her heart something significant shifted in Amelia. She had wanted to bring this man to justice, but what could be a greater triumph than bringing him back to the _light_? A daunting task, a thing no typical female could dare attempt, and yet…she was no average woman.

Amelia’s lips parted, her breath quickened, her pulse thundered in her ears.

Sethos clearly made note of this change in their weather, and dared lean closer.

Perhaps Amelia should have pushed him away, or retreated across the room, or hit him over the head with the silver bell-cover of the tray. She should have done _anything_ but what she did do, which was to close her eyes and let him touch his lips to hers once more. This kiss was gentle and lulling and heady as a full snifter of brandy downed all at once.

She had never been kissed like _that_ before, and when Sethos drew away to rest his forehead upon hers he was not the only one who struggled to regain their breath. “Amelia…”

He leaned in once more, and only then did Amelia regain her wits enough to place a hand upon his chest at the base of his throat. His bare skin against her palm felt _feverish._ “Wait—”

A sudden commotion outside drew both their attentions. There was a loud bang, shouting, what sounded like the din of battle, and a roar that Amelia would have known anywhere.

“ _Emerson.”_

She breathed his name like a prayer, and Sethos’ handsome countenance took on all the dark foreboding of an approaching thunderhead.

“ _Damn_ _him_ ,” growled Sethos, leaping to his feet lithely just as the door came crashing open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading and your comments, they absolutely make my day!


	4. Fight For Her Like Men

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amelia rolled up her sleeves and resolved to do something. The sleeves in question were incredibly gauzy and not prone to stay rolled, but the gesture was symbolic...

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/34100073@N03/39203439474/in/dateposted-public/)

 

 

# IV. Fight For Her Like Men

 

Had ever Amelia beheld a more magnificent sight than Emerson’s imposing frame filling the door, his shirt torn and hanging off him, and two jeweled scimitars clasped in his formidable hands?

The answer, Dear Reader, is no.

Amelia was not one to swoon, but had she not been seated the sight certainly would have made her weak in the knees.

“Emerson!” she exclaimed, and those blazing sapphire orbs fixed upon her.

“Peabody! What the _devil_ are you wearing?”

So distracted, or perhaps scandalized, by said ensemble, Emerson only lifted an arm at the last second to shield himself from a table flung with deadly accuracy by Sethos. One of the scimitars went skittering across the marble floor as Emerson let loose a string of scalding oaths. “Damn you, you damn vile swine! If you have hurt her I will make you eat your own ears!”

“We were actually having a rather pleasant discussion before your rude interruption,” quipped Sethos, his eyes sliding longingly to the scimitar across the room. “Who invited _you_?”

Emerson kicked closed the door, locking out the Egyptian policemen who had been about to enter. “Never mind. Even if you haven’t hurt her, I am going to enjoy cutting you to bits.”

“A sword against an unarmed man? Very sporting of you,” quipped Sethos, causing Emerson to grumble like a volcano on the verge of eruption.

“Very well. Pick it up,” snarled Emerson, gesturing towards the sword across the room.

“Emerson!” exclaimed Amelia, jumping to her feet. “You don’t know how to fence!”

The Professor bared his teeth in what may have been intended as a smile. “Say it a little louder, Peabody, so that our adversary may receive the full measure of my weaknesses. He _is_ our adversary, is he not?”

Amelia looked to Sethos, who now clasped the imposing weapon in his hand. For a moment their eyes met, and Amelia found herself struck dumb, unable to confirm or deny it.

“This is ridiculous!” she finally expounded, stamping her foot. “I forbid you both to continue with this insanity!”

The Master Criminal’s mouth pulled at the corner in a rather fatalistic smile. “I fear I must disobey you, my dear. That is unless the Professor would be so kind as to lay down his sword and allow us to leave peacefully?”

The prospect caused a hot blush to erupt across Amelia’s skin, and Emerson emitted a roar of indignation for the idea. “Never!”

“Then there is nothing but to fight for her like men, eh Radcliffe?”

Amelia wondered if it was a happy mistake that every word in that challenge was designed to incense Emerson to berserker-like fury. He pounced like a leopard, sword raised, and the clang of metal against metal resounded through the air.

Despite Emerson’s strength and unlikely speed for a man his size, it became very apparent very quickly that Sethos was the superior fencer. For the briefest moment Amelia found herself frozen to the spot, captivated by the sight of these two fine specimens of masculinity fighting over _her._ If someone had told her just days ago that this would take place she would have laughed them out of the room.

Fortunately, this temporary insanity only lasted a few long moments. Shaking herself free of the madness that had taken hold of her, Amelia rolled up her sleeves and resolved to do something. The sleeves in question were incredibly gauzy and not prone to stay rolled, but the gesture was symbolic.

Both men were bleeding from cuts on their arms—superficial wounds, or at least she hoped. Trembling with fury and exertion, locked in a battle of wills and physical strength, the pair’s swords were locked at the guard, each attempting to push the other back. At first they seemed completely caught in stalemate, two titans well-met upon the field of battle, but then little by little Sethos’ sword began to lower.

Amelia realized that should Emerson prevail he was in such a rage that he really might prove true to his word and cut Sethos to ribbons. Or that Sethos would pretend defeat just to get Emerson’s guard down then strike—neither scenario appealed to Amelia, and desperately she looked about for something that might induce cooler heads to prevail.

Her gaze settled upon the crystal water carafe. It glittered in the slanting sunlight through the screens like divine inspiration, and Amelia seized it, surging forward towards the combatants with the intention of dousing them as one would discourage squabbling dogs on the lawn.

Amelia was not used to going about in such _voluminous_ trousers as the ones she wore, and somehow she managed to trip on the gauzy fabric. The carafe went flying and landed with a spectacular crash at the men’s feet, water and shards of glass spraying everywhere. It was enough of a distraction for the men to disengage, leaving them glaring over their blades at each other and looking to Amelia’s prone form with befuddled enquiry.

She rather resembled a tortoise on its back at that moment, the breath knocked out of her—the marble floor was quite hard.

“Are you all right, Amelia?” asked Sethos, daring to take a step towards her. Emerson blocked the action with his sword, blazing blue eyes narrowing.

“Alright, Peabody?” he growled, sure that the answer was yes. He’d seen her take worse tumbles than that to little or no damage.

More embarrassed than hurt, Amelia pushed herself to her feet. “This is madness,” she panted, taking advantage of their pause to interpose herself between them, her arms raised. “Stop this at once, both of you.”

Neither man dared trying to strike a blow with Amelia between them, and they settled for brandishing the terrible swords at each other like cross little boys playing pirate.

A din of banging resounded from the other side of the door. The Egyptian police, no doubt, desiring entry whence they had watched the Father of Curses disappear. Amelia dared meet Sethos’ eyes, and for a man who she had so steadfastly wished to see brought to justice not but hours ago, she felt an alarming amount of regret. Those strange irises, ever undecided between brown or green, seemed to tug at her very soul. She swallowed hard, pushing down the feelings that formed a lump in her throat. Surely there was some explanation for this psychological phenomenon that resulted in sympathy for one’s captor?

It could not last.

It could not be _real._

When at last she spoke her voice came steady. “The game is up. I am sorry. Emerson, open the door.”

Sethos sighed resignedly, dropping the sword at his feet with a clatter. “So that’s the way it is, darling?”

Out of the corner of her eye Amelia noticed Emerson stiffen at the MC’s flagrant use of such a familiar endearment. Ignoring her colleague’s muttered curses behind her, Amelia nodded. “It is the only way it ever could have ended.”

With a rueful smile Sethos shook his head. “Five more minutes, and I think I might have swayed you,” he countered, inspiring an emphatic oath from Emerson. The Professor sprang forward, brandishing his sword. Amelia could not say what instinct caused her to stand in his way, and as they collided Sethos quickly made his way to another curtain across the room. “Farewell, Amelia!” he called as she and Emerson grappled awkwardly. “But this is not goodbye!”

With a flourish worthy of a stage magician he swept behind the curtain. A slight sound indicated the opening and closing of a door. Cursing magnificently, Emerson finally managed to disentangle himself from Amelia, and sprang forward to the door. It was completely smooth, and perhaps not locked from the other side. It would not open.

“Damn!” roared Emerson, pounding his fist upon the panel. “Damn damn damn!” Every epithet was punctuated with a mighty kick that made the wall shake, but still the secret portal did not budge.

“Emerson.”

“Damn! Er—yes Peabody?”

“He’s gone.”

“Yes, I am aware! No thanks to you. What were you thinking?”

Inexplicably, her lip quivered. “I do not think the blame for his escape goes to me.” It was the strangest thing, but suddenly Amelia found she could not stop shaking.

“Oh, Hell and Damnation.” There was considerably less feeling in these oaths, and Emerson crossed the room to her, taking her in his arms. “Are you all right? He didn’t…”

“No. He did not.”

Emerson grumbled something under his breath, placing one large hand protectively over her head that rested upon his breast.

“You came for me.”

“Of course I bloody came for you. I will always… _hrmph_.” The indignation in his tone was extremely endearing, and she felt her heart unexpectedly warm.

“How did you find me?”

His voice was a low soothing rumble that she felt as much as heard with her head pressed to his heart. “I sent Selim to follow you, curse you. I knew that you would not leave well enough alone. But he lost you and _the detective effendi_ somewhere along the way. It took some time to search the area. Deuced good trick with that scrap of ridiculous pink flannel belt of yours. I may not have found you otherwise.”

“I keep telling you that it is an extremely useful article,” she sniffed, her voice quavering, a thing it was rarely wont to do. Good sense and an inexplicable frustration warred within her, to such a degree that she could hardly breathe.

Or perhaps she could hardly breathe for Emerson’s strong arms that engulfed her in an embrace. From such close quarters she could see a cut on his bicep slowly trickling blood. “You are bleeding. Let me—”

He squeezed her harder, muffling her words. “Hush, Peabody.”

Finally she completely submitted to his grasp, and found she could not stop herself from weeping upon his broad chest, clutching what little remained of his shirt.

With relief, or disappointment, she could hardly say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you SO much for reading and your comments! They make writing this such a joy!


	5. Correspondence From A [Master] Criminal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Amelia receives a letter...

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/34100073@N03/25139836367/in/dateposted-public/)

# V. Correspondence From A [Master] Criminal

 

“Are you sure you are well, Amelia? You have been cursed—erm— _uncharacteristically_ quiet.”

This question came in the evening a week after Amelia’s ordeal with the Master Criminal. She and the Professor were winding down from the hard day’s work, going over notes and examining some small finds from the rubbish pile. There was a rather handsome blue faience shawabti that Amelia was particularly proud of, it was only a _little_ chipped.

Amelia looked up from her treasure, a single dark eyebrow raised. “Have I ever been one for incessant prattle?”

“Of course not, I could not stand you if you were. It is only…” Emerson looked mildly embarrassed about the subject he was attempting to broach. “I know that you said that scoundrel did not hurt you, and perhaps it was true in the physical sense…but the mental effects of such an ordeal upon a lady, even one as steadfast as you…Oh curse it! What I am trying to say is that if you need to see a doctor or some sort of professional we can arrange—”

“That is very kind of you, Emerson,” interrupted Amelia, unable to let him ramble on longer in that particular vein. “But I assure you, I am not in need of medical attention, from either a physician or psychologist. Despite his fierce reputation, the Master Criminal was actually…perfectly kind.”

A cad, perhaps, but not a mean one. He had been courteous, practically _gallant,_ aside from… _well_. Stolen kisses and the provision of a wardrobe fit only for the confines of the privacy of the harem. It certainly could have been worse. Much worse. If she was quieter than usual it was because she could not stop thinking about _him._ She could not make sense of him, or her own confoundedly inconsistent emotions regarding him.

Any sensible English lady would have been perfectly relieved, and prayed to the Almighty that she never see Sethos again. The thoughts that actually inhabited Amelia’s mind, however, were of a very different character. She kept looking at the horizon, hoping to see some Cursed Tourist riding up in ridiculous attire, an obvious parody of the people of society who frequented Egypt yet a perfect disguise, to anyone but her at least, because that man could surely never hide from her astute and discerning eyes again. Surely now, she would know him anywhere…

Emerson frowned mightily at this assurance. It did not seem he agreed, though he also did not seem to know what else to say on this delicate subject. He sat there chewing on the stem of his pipe in a brown study for a long time before finally blurting, “Then why do you seem so bloody sad? Did you not _want_ to be rescued?”

Emerson might have surprised Amelia less had he physically struck her. She sat up ramrod straight in her chair. “What exactly are you implying?”

Emerson’s deep blue eyes glittered darkly like the sea at night during a gathering storm. “Well you looked very cozy when I burst in on you, half-dressed in that ridiculous ensemble beside him. And when I nearly had the bas—the _fiend_ in my grasp you got in my way.”

“Emerson, you were mad as a rampaging bull. I only prevented you from doing something you might regret. We both know that cutting a man to pieces would give you no true pleasure.”

“Hmph,” he grumbled, and muttered something under his breath that might have been _that was the least of what I intended for that villain for daring..._

Amelia dared go on, “Furthermore, I am convinced he is an Englishman and therefore entitled to British justice. He deserves a trial, not an immediate execution.”

Emerson’s eyes made an impressive attempt at bugging out of his head. “Convinced, are you? The subject came up in your polite conversation no doubt.”

Amelia frowned at her colleague, hoping her voice did not betray the tremble she felt inside. Magnificent as he was when he was in a temper, this was not a vein of questioning Amelia relished.

“It did not, but I am _convinced_ all the same. Something in his cultured speech patterns, his elegant mannerisms, the way he carried himself like a gentleman…”

“A _gentleman!_ ” exclaimed Emerson, his great fist pounding upon the table with a mighty crash.

“Do calm yourself, Professor, or you will give yourself an apoplexy,” urged Amelia with appropriate sangfroid for a man who was indulging in a juvenile temper tantrum.

“If I suffer a traumatic event of the brain it will not be _my_ doing,” he answered, his voice suddenly quiet. Amelia recognized that low purr as a marker that Emerson was truly angry. He rose from his seat as he spoke, until his ursine form veritably loomed over her. “But I am gathering the impression, _Miss_ Peabody, that you _like_ the fellow that abducted you from the street and held you captive. The fellow who is, I admit it, likely the most dangerous and most successful robber baron of antiquities of our time, which makes him _my_ distinct enemy. What would _you_ say to having someone on your staff at an archeological dig whose allegiances were so ambiguous?”

So furious that her limbs shook, Amelia stood to meet Emerson until they were nose to nose. “You doubt my integrity, after _everything_ we have been through? You think I am his _confederate?_

“I confess I don’t know what to think, this business had been so damned strange, and such a confounded nuisance!”

Determined not to lose her temper, Amelia straightened, brushing imaginary dust off her sleeve. “How _dare_ you. I am retiring to my room now, Emerson. I think after a good night’s sleep you will realize how utterly foolish you are being.”

Freeing herself from her chair, Amelia started for the door. A rumbling growl followed after her. “Amelia, if you walk away from me in this moment I will—”

She did walk away, and did not hear the ending of his threat. It did not matter, for in her heart she knew something precious between them had already broken.

 

**~//~**

 

Emerson did not speak to her for days outside of archeological matters after their tiff. Just the sight of her was enough to make him grumble something under his breath and storm off in the opposite direction.

It pained Amelia enough that she might have apologized this once, had there actually been something to apologize for. She refused to think of herself as a victim, and a lady cannot help it if a Master Criminal takes a fancy to her…

An armistice might have loomed on the horizon, had fate not possessed such a cursed sense of timing.

The letter came via private messenger, and the fellow disappeared before Amelia really got a chance to get a good look at him. She was too entranced by the missive clasped in her hand, a thick envelope sealed with red wax, imprinted by a royal cartouche, hieroglyphs denoting a monarch, or at least a particular sobriquet, Amelia knew _all_ too well.

She would not have been proud to admit that her hands trembled as she tore open the envelope, right there in the middle of the courtyard. She could not wait, and her eyes flew across the page.

 

_My darling Amelia,_

 

_How are you? I pray this note finds you well, and that the ensuing excitement of our little escapade was not too taxing for you. Ah, but who am I speaking to? I would wager my most prized artefact that you are not only well, but thrived on the adventure. You, my lover with the heart of a lioness._

_Leaving you that day was perhaps the most difficult task I have ever undertaken. Admit it, you too were torn. I will never forget the sight of you flinging yourself in that madman’s path for the sake of my sorry hide—perhaps you saved my life? Our friend Professor Emerson has a magnificent temper, that one._

_It will be his downfall, someday, as perhaps you will be mine._

_As you might have guessed, I have been forced to leave Egypt for a time. Do not think that means I will ever be far from you, darling. Never fear, you have not seen the last of me. Will you look for me, lover? In the eyes of strangers and acquaintances alike, always wondering if I am in your company? Somehow I doubt that no matter my guise, will I ever be able to hide from your clever eyes again. You cannot fathom the relief in that: one person on this earth, at least, truly knows me._

_I meant what I said that day, Amelia, and I pray you will think on it. You could redeem me. Only you have the power to make good seem more enticing than the life of wickedness I have led since I was a boy._

_What in me is dark, illumine._

_I scoffed at Milton, before meeting you. Now, like a fallen angel I look to what was lost with longing rather than contempt. I could be your greatest triumph._

_I look forward to that moment, my sweet, when we will meet once more. I promise not to make you wait long. My black heart could not bear it, for unequivocally that organ of mine now beats for you._

_Your devoted servant,_

_S_

Amelia stood in the middle of the courtyard for who knew how long, unable to move, seemingly unable to breathe though somehow she must have managed. _Why_ did it feel as though a fist clenched around her heart? _Why_ did the corners of her eyes sting with unshed tears? What _weakness_ was it that caused her to press this missive to her breast, no matter how briefly?

For a large man, Emerson can move silently as an afreet. Amelia did not sense his lofty form looming behind her until an exclamation of “What balderdash!” made her jump nearly out of her skin.

“Emerson!” she scolded. “Must you skulk about so?”

“Me? _Skulk_? Where the devil did you get that?” he demanded, gesturing at the letter.

“A man brought it to the gate,” Amelia answered, pointing with the missive in hand.

Emerson snatched the letter and proceeded to render it into confetti, and when the pieces had fallen to the ground he stomped on them.

“Are you quite finished?” asked Amelia coolly, after he had quit jumping up and down. There was a breathtaking fire in those sapphire blue eyes Amelia did not particularly think she deserved to have pointed in her direction.

“ _Quite_ ,” he affirmed with a snap of his large white teeth. “Are _you?_ ”

“You can hardly blame _me_ for the contents of the letter.”

“Worrisome as the contents of the letter were, it is your reaction to it that truly alarms me.”

“I don’t think I _had_ time to react to it before you destroyed it. We might have made use of a sample of his handwriting, you know.”

Emerson scoffed at this. “I was watching you the whole time, _Miss_ Peabody. I must confess I never thought you the type to react so sentimentally to something so ridiculous as a love letter from a criminal.”

A _Master_ Criminal, Amelia thought, but did not think it wise to say it just then. His eyes blazed with sapphire fire and his voice had taken on that purring quality once more that warned of danger on the horizon. She never admired him more than when he was in a rage, yet it was inexplicable how it was possible to desire so very much to both be in this man’s arms and to strike him at the very same moment.

Swallowing a lump in her throat, Amelia forced her voice to be calm. “Perhaps you are the finest Egyptologist of this or any age, Emerson—but sometimes you are simply a bully.” She turned on her heel to go back into the house. Had she paused to look over her shoulder, the absolutely miserable look on Emerson’s face would have convinced her to retract her statement, and much besides. However, once she has determined a course of action, Amelia Peabody does not look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you ever so much for your comments!! They make me so happy!! Like seriously, grinning like a fool, spinning around in circles, bat $hiiite crazy happy over here! <3
> 
> ::wiggles finger:: I see you 4 guest kudos-ers. Would love to hear from you! I don't bite, I promise! XD


	6. A Deal With The Devil

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/34100073@N03/39427987564/in/dateposted-public/)

# VI. A Deal With The Devil

 

“He is simply jealous, Amelia.”

Evelyn tapped her silver spoon dry and lay it to rest upon the finely painted saucer, and lifted her teacup to her lips.

“Jealous? What balderdash,” protested Amelia. “Emerson does not view me in that way. We are colleagues. I am a fellow academic, and his bankroll, I might add. Nothing more.”

Evelyn did not seem particularly convinced on that score. “Amelia…has it ever occurred to you that Walter and I would gladly fund Emerson’s expeditions to Egypt? That it would possibly even be a more comfortable arrangement for him to take money from his brother, than from a woman who is a non-relation? He does it to keep you near to him, my dear. It is the only respectable way.” The corner of her mouth quirked at the thought of what many society wags thought of the arrangement of Amelia traipsing into the desert with a lot of men to dig up bones and potsherds, with or without lady companion. “Respectable enough, at any rate. Outside of asking you to marry him.”

Amelia made a small sound between her teeth. “I have no use for marriage.”

Evelyn’s smile only widened behind her teacup. “I am well aware of your views on nuptials. As is he. Thus, he has not dared ask.”

“He would not ask regardless,” Amelia insisted. “His opinion of matrimony is even more caustic than my own, Evelyn darling. This is nonsense, why are we even discussing it?”

“Then…if he _did_ happen to ask, Amelia, you are saying you would refuse him?”

Amelia found her gaze directed down into her teacup. Perhaps her tea needed more cream. She set about making it so, something to keep her hands busy.

“He won’t, so this line of hypothetical inquiry is futile.” It was possible her rebuke came sharper than Evelyn deserved. Why did it feel like a fist was closing about her heart? What utter _nonsense._

“Amelia, that is not what I’m asking!” exclaimed Evelyn, exasperated and yet somehow maintaining her sunny disposition, those cornflower blue eyes twinkling. “Really, you are impossible.”

“Thank you.”

“You are fond of Professor Emerson.”

“Naturally I am fond of him—when he is not behaving like a cantankerous ursine just out of hibernation.” Which was how he had behaved the whole rest of the season, and on the steamer home besides. Usually their parting for the summer left an ache in her breast, but for the first time in years Amelia was glad to be quit of him when at last she set foot on English soil and they went their separate ways.

An almost _wicked_ sparkle entered Evelyn’s pure blue eyes. As wicked for Evelyn, at any rate. “And what of your _Master Criminal_? How do you like him?”

Amelia nearly dropped her teacup. Deciding she had better put it down, she lowered it to the fine china saucer, and it clattered embarrassingly. But just the _thought_ of the MC made her cheeks warm, and Evelyn’s face lit with delight. “Amelia! Are you _blushing?_ ”

Frowning, Amelia drummed her fingers on the table. “I am _not_ blushing,” she insisted, perhaps a tad too forcefully.

“Well?”

“Of course I do not _like_ him,” Amelia protested. “He kidnapped me.”

“But you said he was rather gallant.”

One dark eyebrow rose at the description. “Yes.”

“And handsome?”

“I most certainly did _not_ say that!”

“You didn’t have to, darling. I could see it written upon your face.”

Amelia glared at her friend, and in answer Evelyn giggled. In the end Amelia could not help it. She joined her friend in mirth, and they laughed until they thought their sides might split. Gasping for breath, Evelyn reached out to clasp Amelia’s hands in her own. The contrast was startling to behold; Evelyn’s so pale and soft and perfectly ladylike, and Amelia’s sun-browned and calloused from hard work in the dirt all winter long.

“Forgive me, my friend, I shall not badger you. Just know that when you are ready to confide in me I will be here with open ears.”

Amelia squeezed Evelyn’s dainty hand in hers. “I am the most fortunate woman to count you as a friend, Evelyn.” There was a long pause, after which Amelia admitted in conspiratorial tones: “He was _devastatingly_ handsome.” 

Their peals of laughter could be heard all the way in the library of Chalfont Castle, where Walter and Emerson were looking over some ostraca from the latest season.

“What could they be cackling about?” wondered Walter, a small smile in place. The sound of his wife’s laughter always brought him joy.

“Cursed if I know,” grumbled Emerson, even though he had a feeling he knew all too well what could cause _Miss_ Amelia Peabody to descend into such girlish fancy. For the umpteenth time since that winter it felt as though someone had lodged a long large knife directly in his breast.

He did not know as yet how to go about removing it.

 

~//~

 

The British Museum is always an impressive sight in the daytime. A bastion of history and knowledge. A temple to the great civilizations of the world and the finest art manufactured by them. But the British Museum by night? It was awe-inspiring and took on a rather mysterious air, her great columns illuminated by gas light. It was the perfect setting to view the newest funerary splendors of Ancient Egypt brought home by Mr. Budge, cleverly displayed for a fundraising gala for the Egypt Exploration Fund in which the crème de la crème could have first peek before the curious public.

Amelia felt certain her invitation had been extended in the capacity of a wealthy donor rather than an academic peer, but be that as it may she was happy to rub elbows with her colleagues and the gawking ignorant ton alike in this chance to view the latest additions to the Museum’s collections.

Budge really had outdone himself this year.

“I say, isn’t it hideous?”

“Marvelously so!” sang two ladies resplendent in silks and dripping with diamonds, ogling the royal mummy. Perhaps time had not been terribly kind to the cadaver, stretching the leathery skin tight over the skull, protuberant teeth on full display, but Amelia reckoned neither of them would look much better in a couple _thousand_ years’ time.

“Ignorant swine,” grumbled Emerson with a snap of his large white teeth.

“Not so loud, Emerson,” Amelia scolded. “Their money will spend as well as anyone’s.”

“Hmph,” ceded the Professor, settling for shooting a glare at their backs. He looked resplendent in evening kit, even if his forbidding countenance betrayed his dislike of such formality.

“What the devil are you doing here anyway?” asked Amelia, accepting a glass of Champagne from a passing waiter. “You hate these things and you hate Budge even more.”

“Budge would not let _me_ examine the artefacts he _stole_ until they had been unveiled tonight,” Emerson admitted. “I was particularly interested in that little statue of Princess Tetisheri. I believe it is a fake.”

Amelia nearly choked on her sip of bubbly. “Lower your voice!” she hissed.

“Lower _your_ voice, Peabody,” he countered with a rather devilish smile that quite unfairly took Amelia’s breath away. In the low light his deep blue eyes glittered like the ocean at night beneath the moon.

It was a stated relief to hear him address her as Peabody once more. Perhaps he’d finally cooled off enough to behave as a semi-civilized human being—was she back in his good graces again? Amelia prided herself in being a woman who did not care for the opinion of anyone, and yet the thought that Emerson might have thought less of her—for something that was decidedly _not_ her doing—had hurt. It hurt far more than she should have allowed it to.

“Erm—have I mentioned yet that you look very well tonight? I…almost didn’t recognize you.”

Amelia took this in the spirit it was meant—as a compliment. She was proud, in fact, that she was far more noted for her working costume than female fripperies such as these. However, it was certainly nice to hear that fripperies were appreciated, when one did take the trouble to don them. These in particular were of a crimson red, a shade that according to Evelyn, Amelia’s dark hair and sallow complexion favored. Subsequent results corroborated the pronouncement.

“Thank you, you are very kind. You too look very handsome, Emerson.” It was quite obvious that Emerson had been tugging at his high collar and cravat, two articles of male fashion he utterly _loathed_ , and Amelia dared to take the liberty of reaching up to straighten it. Emerson allowed this attention, going very still beneath her touch and grumbling something that resembled thanks under his breath after Amelia retreated.

Before more inane pleasantries could pass Emerson’s gaze fixed upon a figure across the room. “Aha! There is Petrie. I heard he was thinking of excavating at Amarna this year. I must head him off of the notion.”

“Why is that?”

“Because that is where _I_ will be excavating next season.”

Before Amelia could question him further on the matter he stalked off on those long legs, leaving her in the metaphorical dust. Amelia was perfectly used to Emerson’s brusque ways, and usually wouldn’t have been offended. But a single word in his statement apparently had the power to snatch away any reassurance she might have taken from his complement or the use of her surname.

He had said where _I_ intend to excavate, not _we,_ and in that moment Amelia felt certain his phrasing had been deliberate.

Emerson had not forgiven her after all, and it stung like a swarm of angry bees had descended upon her heart. An annoying moisture pricked at the edges of her eyes, and hastily Amelia blinked it away.

She would _not_ let Emerson make her cry. Not here.

Not _anywhere_.

Mentally, she put her foot down.

Later, when she was alone in her bed and the shadows drew near, she would see how her resolve held.

Of all God’s creations, Men really are the most trying creatures.

Her eyes scanned the crowd. Many faces she knew, such as Budge and Neville and Amelia Edwards, founder of the Fund and author of the much acclaimed _A Thousand Miles Up the Nile._  There were society wags who Amelia knew by reputation only, lords and ladies out to cut the boredom of their affluent but in Amelia’s opinion—extraordinarily _dull_ lives.

A man caught Amelia’s eye who she did not know. He was tall and handsome and exceedingly well dressed. A rather flamboyant black moustache obscured the lower portion of his visage, and a pair of eyebrows that looked as though they may take flight somewhat balanced his facial hair. French, she deduced, by the continental cut of his evening kit. Or perhaps it was the exaggerated way he spoke to Miss Edwards and kissed her hand that convinced Amelia of his Frankish origins.

They really were an incorrigible lot.

Yet, there was something _familiar_ about that man. Something she couldn’t _quite_ put her finger on.

Realizing she was staring, Amelia looked away just as the gentleman glanced in her direction. She decided this statue of Queen Tetisheri merited a closer look, and with a rustle of crimson skirts she wove through the crowd to her quarry. It was a very pretty little statue carved of limestone, only fourteen inches in height, depicting Her Royal Highness in a prim seated position. Her youthful features were daintily carved with an exquisite if not stylized attention to detail.

“It eez an exceptional copy, _non_?” said a softly accented voice close to her ear, causing Amelia’s posture to bolt upright.

“I beg your pardon?”

Amelia turned to find the Frenchman she had been so surreptitiously studying from across the room. Or by the sly smile he paid her, perhaps her interest had not been so clandestine after all? “Forgive me, mademoiselle. I forget myself in ze face of such beauty! Allow me to introduce myself. Claude Mercier de Beaumont, at your service.”

The name struck a familiar chord in Amelia’s memory, but it was as he took her hand and pressed his lips lightly to her knuckles, and a pair of hazel-green eyes met hers from beneath thick dark lashes, that something like a bolt of lightning shot from her heart to her toes.

His _true_ name, or at least his _nom de guerre,_ danced on the tip of her tongue, but with iron-clad self-control Amelia did not blurt it out in astonishment. Only her fingers betrayed her surprise, tightening hard upon his. 

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, _Monsieur de Beaumont._ If my memory serves correctly, do you not deal in antiquities…in Paris?”

“Sharp as ever, Mademoiselle Peabody.” His voice, even swathed in that absurd French accent, took on a soft quality that sent frissons of—apprehension?— _if only it were so_ —down her spine.

“I don’t believe I mentioned my surname, Monsieur.”

“Ah, but surely anyone who is acquainted with ze world of Egyptology knows of you, _chérie_.”

She could not help but notice he did not release her hand, holding the ends of her fingers lightly in his own. It was a most _innocent_ touch, considering.

“I did not know I was so infamous.”

His handsome visage split in a grin, displaying large yellowed teeth that Amelia knew were not his own. Not entirely, at any rate. Despite this comical element to his disguise, her heart quickened.

“Surely you jest, mademoiselle. You will ‘ave your little joke with me.”

Amelia paid him a smile that did not quite reach her eyes, _burning_ to demand _what the devil do you think you’re doing here?_ The possibilities of what a man like him might mean to do there, amidst so many priceless antiquities, suddenly made her blood run cold. But no, surely not? Not even _Sethos_ would be so bold as to loot _the British Museum_ under all these people’s noses?

It would be the coup of the century. A feat of which only a man of his ego and genius could even _contemplate,_ much less hope to execute…

Good Gad. He meant to do it. In a span of approximately five seconds, Amelia convinced herself that it must be so.

Sethos—that is to say, _Monsieur de Beaumont_ , regarded her seriously, and seemed ready to spring should she open her mouth to sound the alarm. He ducked down to whisper in her ear once more, “Again you hamper my plans, dear lady. Meet me in Gallery 4, so that we may discuss terms of an armistice.”

Playing along, Amelia canted her head, laughing as though _Monsieur_ had just told her a _very_ funny joke. “It would serve you right if I handed you over to Scotland Yard,” she said quietly and sweetly, at a volume meant for him alone.

The corner of his well-drawn mouth pulled into a devastating—no, an _infuriating—_ smirk. “And I should kiss you silly in front of all these people, including your _dear_ Radcliffe.”

A hot blush ambushed Peabody, and she feared her cheeks must have turned the same color as her gown. Her small hand balled into a fist.

“That action would hardly serve your best interests, _Monsieur_.”

A low laugh tugged at her insides, touching places no lady should _ever_ mention. “But it would almost be worth it. Come now, we both know you’re curious. Ten minutes.”

After daring to meet her eyes one last time, Sethos gave a little bow and disappeared into the crowd, exchanging witticisms and renewing old acquaintances as though he was the oldest of friends. Vaguely she wondered where the real Monsieur de Beaumont was being kept. Unless…Sethos really _was_ the Parisian Antiquities dealer, and made appearances from time to time, selling expensive things by appointment from a shop front, as legal as can be… It would be too perfect.

It was entirely plausible.

The whole business made her head spin.

Amelia should have alerted the authorities. She should have alerted _Emerson,_ who would have been entirely more effective in stopping this thief than the whole of Scotland Yard.

However, she did not.

Impatiently Amelia waited for ten minutes to pass, and then slipped away to go downstairs to Gallery Four, the resting place of the Museum’s collection of Egyptian monumental sculptures.

She found him standing before a handsome granite bust of Ramses II, his trim black-suited figure starkly outlined against the base of the statue. Broad shoulders and a slender waist. Those features at least she knew truly belonged to him.

“Do you think this poor chap ever imagined that someday he would be put on vulgar display for gawking tourists on a cold island an entire sea away from his own kingdom? It’s a bit sad in a way. If I wasn’t certain he’d been an arrogant prig I’d feel sorry for him.”

The French accent was gone now, replaced by intonations that sounded decidedly more at home in this London museum. Was this his _true_ voice? The prospect of such a triumph sent a thrill dancing down Amelia’s spine.

“Is it as bad as all that?” posed Amelia, coming to stand beside him, contemplating Ramses’ handsome countenance. “To be remembered and gazed upon with awe on a continent not even his own…there are worse legacies, I think. I doubt either of us will fare so well in two thousand years’ time.”

Sethos chuckled, looking down his aquiline nose at Amelia. “When you put it that way it doesn’t sound nearly so terrible. You will think me a cynic.”

“It is reflective of the life you have lived, I would expect.” He smiled, but did not contradict the notion. “Which could bring us to the topic of our current situation. You mentioned armistice?”

This won Amelia a burst of laughter. “You _are_ direct, my love, upon my word.”

“Good Gad. I felt certain you would surely be cured of _that_ notion by now.”

This time his laughter was softer. “Never. I fear there is no cure for me, sweet Amelia.”

Instinct told her she should step away then, and she would have had he not slipped an arm about her waist, quick as a cobra. “Unhand me.” The demand did not hold _quite_ as much venom as she would have liked, and it was possible her hands came to rest rather familiarly upon the flat plane of his chest.

Ignoring her, though he did not hold her as close or as tight as he _could_ have, Sethos canted his head. “You are the _only_ woman in the world who would follow a known criminal into a dark area of this massive building after hours, intent on demanding surrender. You don’t even have your parasol!”

Well. It did sound _a little_ foolish, when he put it that way.

“I have other methods of defending myself if need be,” she bluffed.

“Oh? What exactly?”

“Try me and find out.”

This only won her more laughter; a very deep chuckle that she felt more than heard, and gooseflesh erupted down her arms. “My God, how I have missed you. I have longed to see you. But I never expected to find you _here_ tonight. You abhor Budge’s methods.”

“That does not mean I do not support the efforts of the Fund. Other worthy scholars benefit from it as well. Flinders Petrie—”

“Ah, but of course. And, there is always _curiosity_ , which I believe is your greatest weakness.”

She frowned, though it was perfectly true. She’d wanted a peek ahead of the general public as much as anyone in the field.

“Curiosity is not a weakness, it is a _virtue_ ,” she sniffed.

“Certainly, my dear. But it does seem to me I hold all the cards in my humble hand tonight. The way I see it you have two choices.”

She squirmed a little in his grasp, and he pulled her closer to make a point. And perhaps…just because he wanted to. He was warm and solid and smelled heavenly of some spiced cologne and his own masculine skin—Amelia contemplated stomping on his foot with her heel. It would have hurt a great deal. But once again, curiosity staid her wrath.

“Is that how you see it?”

“Oh indeed. One, I could render you unconscious and leave you like sleeping beauty behind this statue, and rob this museum _blind_. All the pieces are in place, and when the clock strikes midnight…”

“The toast! You fiend, you intend to drug them all!”

“Ssshhhh. Yes, aren’t I clever? The waiters are all gentlemen in my employ.”

“ _Pssh_ , what balderdash. _Gentlemen thieves_ indeed.”

“No one will be permanently damaged. Not even Robin Hood could claim such a light hand in his operations.”

Amelia’s heart thundered in her chest. He could really do it. Make off with all that magnificent gold jewelry, pectorals set with lapis and coral, cuff bracelets and rings studded with  faience scarabs inscribed with royal names... He would leave the little statue of Tetisheri, of course. His little joke on Budge. A _true_ connoisseur did not go in for fakes…

Her voice may have sounded a little breathy as she demanded, “And what is the other option you propose?”

“Ah. I find this is my truest preference. An opportunity not to be squandered.”

He let a theatrical pause draw out as his gaze settled upon her, a softness in his eyes that woke something that had no business stirring in Amelia’s belly. When she could stand no more she exclaimed, “Tell me, curse you!”

“I and my men walk away, the treasure untouched, and _you_ will agree to spend… _a month._ Yes, that should do nicely. A month, in my company, this summer.”

Amelia’s fingers convulsed in the lapels of his dinner jacket. The effrontery! That he would _dare_ suggest! The utter cheek! As if she would—

“A month in your company, _where_?” she asked suspiciously, regarding him through slitted eyes.

“Yet to be determined,” he mused. “But I promise to take you on an adventure that would not disappoint my lady.”

Gooseflesh betrayed her once more. Every hair on her body stood on end as she contemplated the prospect—the delicious, damnably improper prospect of having him to herself, with no threat of interruption, for a _month—_ and lazily Sethos caressed the back of her arm with his fingertips, the bare skin above her glove, only making it worse. “Are you cold, Amelia?” he asked, his tone conveying he knew very well that temperature was _not_ the cause of her excitement.

“You really are mad. You think that after you _kidnapped_ me I would _willingly_ put myself in your hands again?”

He looked down at her smaller form that was quite neatly wrapped up in his embrace already. “It seems to me that you rather like being in my hands, Miss Peabody. Your protests tonight have only been obligatory at best.”

“ _Cad_.” She really was using that particular word to exhaustion with this man.

“If I was a cad…” Long fingers slipped into her coiffure at the base of her skull, angling her head towards him. “Then I would kiss you within an inch of your life at this very moment. I would do worse than that, even. I would take _everything_ I want. Who would stop me?”

There was only time for the tiniest frisson of fear to tickle her spine before her released her abruptly. So accustomed had she grown to his strong hold, she nearly stumbled. For some reason her legs were a little weak at the knees…

“I may be a thief, my lady, but I am no bounder. I will even give you my word that I will not touch you again without your permission.”

Amelia should have scoffed at this. Any sensible woman would have.

“You promise after one month you will release me to go my own way?”

Even in the shadowed room the light of hope that entered Sethos’ eyes shone brightly, and it positively took her breath away. “I promise, Amelia. You have my word.”

“And you promise you will leave the collections of the museum in peace?”

“I promise.”

“For all time. Not just tonight.”

An amused smile curled his lips. “You drive a hard bargain.”

“As any lady should. Well?”

“Fine. For all time, Miss Peabody. Once artefacts enter these hallowed halls they shall be safe from my sticky fingers. Satisfied?”

“Almost.”

The laughter that escaped him was infectious. “What more?”

“You will refrain from your criminal activities in the month you are with me.”

This pronouncement caused his expressive mouth to press into a serious line. “That might be a bit harder to arrange, darling.”

“I would hate to make this easy for you.”

Again, a smile tugged at his lips, though this one was decidedly more restrained. Tapping his chin, he seemed to consider the bargain. Just when she felt certain he would refuse and she would be freed from this increasingly foolhardy endeavor, he nodded. “Very well, Miss Peabody. One month. Perhaps you will make an honest man of me yet.” Sethos chuckled, though seemingly only at himself. “Give me the right incentive, darling, and I would burn my empire to the ground for you.”

“And what, dare I ask, would be the right incentive?” Once more he stepped closer, and for a moment she thought he would grab her up again. But he only extended his hand, and she thought he meant to shake on the deal. However, when she presented her own corresponding appendage he brushed his lips over her knuckles before retreating once more.

“You may ponder that in the interim. I will be in touch.”

She tried to speak, but found her heart seemed to have had lodged itself in her throat. With trembling fingers pressed to that organ in question, all she could do was watch his tall form sweep out of the room and disappear around the corner.

It all happened so quickly, a part of her couldn’t help but wonder if this was what it was like to sign a deal with the devil. Exciting and full of promise, even if at the back of the mind one knew one’s very soul hung in the balance.

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/34100073@N03/39592105024/in/dateposted-public/)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Amelia B Edwards was certainly a real figure in Egyptology, and the inspiration for our very own Amelia Peabody, though I may have taken some liberties with the methods of the Fund. XD #sorrynotsorry  
> **Thank you so much for your comments!!


	7. Rendez-Vous at Victoria Station

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Amelia receives a much anticipated communique...

 

# VII-  Rendez-Vous At Victoria Station

 

In her father’s country house Amelia spent most of the summer, wandering the rooms and grounds with an atypical despondency that was most unbecoming in her personal view of what a lady of substance and character should do with herself in time of leisure. Usually she spent the majority of the warmer months at Chalfont Castle, sparring with Emerson over the task of wrangling his notes into publishable material and less combative though no less enjoyable hours spent with Evelyn and the children.

This year Evelyn had invited her of course, but Amelia heard no opinion of yah or nah from Emerson. Weeks went by after the gala at the British Museum and no apologies nor requests for her assistance nor tentative plans for the next season were forthcoming.

Amelia was too proud to hang about where she was not wanted, and too stubborn to cede an inch. If Emerson no longer cared to share his archeological endeavors with her—she would not beg.

However she would, apparently, sit by the window and pine.

The loneliness of spinsterhood had never quite penetrated her so profoundly before. Her dear Father, with whom she had occupied herself for so many years with his care and keeping, was gone. Aside from the occasional rustling of the staff the house was deathly quiet. There was no mayhem of Evelyn’s dear children, who she loved like her own blood (or better than, considering her deplorable family), running about in their games, no roar from the study and crash as Emerson threw his pen [or something heavier] at an unfortunate bust of Socrates, as there would have been at Chalfont Castle.

For someone who claimed to prefer her own company Amelia felt exceedingly _alone._ She had not realized how much she considered the Emersons her own adopted family, until this _unfathomable_ event in which she had possibly lost them forever.

_Forever._

If anyone could hold out so stubbornly for such a duration, it was Radcliffe Emerson.

Amelia never felt so low in the life, and the promised communique delivered by private courier could not have come at a more perfect hour.

 

~//~

 

Amid the bustle and din of Victoria Station Amelia sat serenely as a rock amidst a stream on Platform 2, her baggage stacked neatly at her side. Outwardly, she appeared perfectly collected. Just another well-to-do passenger awaiting her train, a lady accompanied by her maid and her footman, perhaps _en route_ to meeting her husband abroad…

Perhaps outwardly she gave the perfectly respectable appearance of a lady, but if passersby only knew that she had only just met the tall and rather imposing middle aged man who loomed behind her, Mr. Greaves, as well as the chipper young thing who hummed under her breath, Miss Penny Merriweather, when they came to collect her this morning in a very smart carriage with matching greys...

_Was she really going through with this?_

She was.

Though she did not yet know their _exact_ destination, there were certain inferences a lady of her superior intellect could make. Such as, Platform 2 at the approaching hour of 8h20 was the departure point for the British Southern Railway service to Dover, where one could board a ferry to the Continent via Callais, and from there…the possibilities were endless, really, but a romantic such as Sethos might consider Paris the _perfect_ setting in which to execute a seduction.

Amelia couldn’t help it.

She squirmed a bit in her chair as her heart and stomach did their best imitation of a Chinese circus, flipping this way and diving that.

She would certainly _NOT_ allow herself to be seduced!

Her hand clenched into a fist upon her lap with the thought, punctuating her determined self-directive by pounding upon her knee.

“Darling, you look a bit _piqued_ for someone about to embark on an adventure.”

Startled, she looked up to find none other than the MC himself standing before her, dressed very smartly in a dove grey pin-striped suit. Black hair waved from beneath his top hat. A dark goatee encircled his mouth, which was curled slightly in an amused smile. Tinted spectacles shielded his eyes, but aside from that it seemed he had taken minimal pains to conceal his true appearance.

This was all for her, she realized with her heart in her throat. The Master Criminal _daring_ to go out in public nearly _naked_ , as it were, so that she would have the distinctive honor of sharing his true company. It was extremely flattering, and incredibly risky, was it not? But then she supposed it was possible his true appearance could be as good a disguise as any. Who would know him?

He was so handsome it almost _hurt._

His amusement shifted to concern. “Are you well, Amelia?” He extended his gloved hand, after which she realized she’d been staring with her lips parted like some star-struck simpleton. “I am _quite_ well,” she assured him, eyeing the proffered appendage. This was it, she knew. Should she accept his grasp upon her the die would be cast, the ink sanded and dried upon the contract.

Last time this man had taken her into his custody by force. This time she will have walked into his keeping completely of her own volition.

It was the more effective trap by far.

Sethos waited, the very picture of English upper-class respectability in his expensive clothes and disaffected air. For what is a gentleman really, but a patient wolf?

Yet there was a tension at the corner of his eyes that spoke volumes to Amelia. He feared she would balk at this last crucial moment and slip through his fingers after all. She could hear the grumbling voice of a certain individual in the back of her mind. _If she had any bloody sense at all she would run._

But Amelia Peabody did not run from danger.

The same individual would have said she had a habit of sticking her head under the blade of the guillotine to get a good look at the executioner.

She was not afraid. She was _curious,_ and so she squared her shoulders and placed her hand in that of the Master Criminal, a damning thrill coursing up her arm as his warm strong fingers wrapped around hers.

As he helped her rise the smile of triumph Sethos paid her might have been the way the snake smirked at Eve, and once more she found herself caught up in his chameleon gaze. She really could not make up her mind if his eyes were brown or green or gray today, and they were standing so close her skirts brushed against his legs...

Shaking her head, she cleared her throat. “I was simply wondering as to our destination, dear _cousin_. Where _are_ we going?”

How proper that he would be posing as a relation—quite a distant one—but never the less, the ruse made their travelling together not such a terrible scandal. Perhaps it was ridiculous, but she could not help but feel touched that he would consider her sensibility on the matter.

Sethos lifted her hand to his lips, pressing a chaste kiss to the back of it. “What would be the fun in revealing _that_?” he teased. Before he could say anything more the train pulled up to the platform, its great steam engine huffing and puffing mightily at the head of the caravan. When it came to a stop Sethos snapped at his footman to ready the baggage, and the towering Mr. Greaves saw to it with little more than a nod.

Amelia reckoned that this man’s duties ran to acting as a bodyguard just as much as a footman and valet. It was easy to imagine him at home in a circle of criminals, but the girl who was to act as Amelia’s maid—and companion, she supposed, and the attempt at propriety was _laughable_ —was not so easily pinned down.

“Where on earth did you find _her_?” asked Amelia as the sprightly young Penny gathered some smaller cases and skipped off after Greaves.

“In a situation no woman should ever need endure,” said Sethos in a low voice, offering his arm. “I thought you would approve of the rescue, adept as you are at picking up strays.”

Amelia squeezed his arm, imagining what exactly such a statement could imply.

“Are you always so kind to fallen women?” She couldn’t help but wonder if the incident was as isolated as it was calculated to appeal to her unfortunately singular sympathies.

“When I can be, Amelia. The world is cruel enough to women without _me_ adding to their grief.” There was a certain set to his jaw as he made this statement that made Amelia wonder. However, before she could interrogate him further he led her to the train, engaging the conductor and handing over their tickets for review.

When they were seated in first class, watching the rolling green meadows of Kent pass by the window, Sethos was moved to reach across the table towards her hand once more. His elegant mitt sat palm up in offering, a question in his eyes, and Amelia found herself reaching for him with nary a thought.

_This would not do._

It was one thing to accept escort when boarding the train, but holding hands like star struck lovers in full view of the public?

She wanted to. She _badly_ wanted to, but it _would not do_.

Annoyed with herself more than him, she clenched her small hand into a fist, denying him at the last moment. Sethos’ well-formed lips curled into a smile as though he expected this small act of resistance.

The day was young—he would not cede defeat _just_ yet.

“You’re not going to make this easy for me, are you my dear?” he teased in a low voice meant only for her ears.

“I believe I already informed you I would not,” she sniffed.

His smile only widened, and for a flash she was reminded of a wolf on the hunt. Any sensible woman would have been afraid, but it only sent a thrill down her spine to the very tips of her toes.

“I confess there was a part of me that felt certain you would not come,” he admitted quietly, his eyes locked with hers. Perhaps it was the reflection of the verdant scenery, but in that moment those orbs seemed impossibly green. “Am I dreaming, Amelia? Have I fallen down the rabbit hole?”

The corners of her mouth twitched. Smugness was so unbecoming in a lady, but she couldn’t help but feel _a tad._ “I questioned the decision more than once,” she admitted. “But in the end I decided you would remain true to your word.”

Only his shoulders shaking with mirth gave away his quiet laughter. “And why is that, pray tell?”

Amelia canted her head. “Would you think me a fool for wanting to believe in you?”

Suddenly something _raw_ surfaced in Sethos’ expression, there and gone like a ripple in a pool. However, to Amelia’s trained eye it was telling as an announcement printed in the Times. Sethos was used to being feared, naturally, but a man who inspired _faith_? That was an entirely different animal, something precious and rare, and the Master Criminal turned to look away out the window.

“Never, Amelia. I only pray I do not let you down.”

Nothing more was said for some time after that, the travelling companions allowing themselves to be lulled by the gentle swaying of the train, the rhythmic _cha-chunk cha-chunk_ of the wheels racing along the tracks. Amelia felt his eyes upon her more than once, his frank gaze a steady weight upon her countenance. Once it might have unnerved her, but in that moment she felt impossibly— _ridiculously_ , brave.

 

**~//~**

 

The crossing from Dover to Callais went smoothly. The weather was fair and only the fluffiest white confections of clouds scudded across the sky.

When Amelia beheld the means of conveyance for the next leg of their journey her grip tightened upon Sethos’ arm, a small gasp of pleasure sneaking past her lips.

“You _didn’t_ ,” she protested, looking up at him from beneath her hat.

Sethos could not help but take delight in her surprise. “Could I have possibly settled for any other for _you,_ my dear?” he teased.

The iconic deep blue cars of their train gleamed in the sun, the gold trim winking with coquettish promise in the late afternoon light. The words beamed clearly from the side of the car, the moniker sparkling proudly: _Express d’Orient._

Though she had of course visited Paris on her first tour of Europe that ended in Egypt and the discovery of her destiny, she had certainly not indulged in such luxury transportation to get there.

She could not stop looking between the train and Sethos’ handsome countenance, her delight as palpable as a little girl’s. “Will a week in Paris suit you, before we move on to Stamboul?” asked Sethos, a knowing gleam in his eyes.

Amelia found herself turning towards him, biting her lip to hold back the coquettish quip that hovered on her tongue: _Have a care, sir, or you will spoil me rotten_.

She settled for a restrained, “That will do.”

Knowing very well the game she played, Sethos’ cheeks swelled with a triumphant smile. “Thank heavens for that.”

It took every ounce of self-control he possessed not to grab her up there in the _gare_ amidst all these people while she stood there mooning up at him with those storm-grey eyes, looking so utterly _delectable_.

 

**~//~**

 

 _Opulent_ was the least of the adjectives one could use to describe the luxurious and famed Orient-Express. Amelia admired the wood paneled car, the glass fixtures by Lalique lending a warm intimate glow to the close cabin. They would arrive in Paris a bit after five, too early to sup on the train, but Amelia enjoyed partaking tea in the dining car.

Again, Sethos’ eyes hardly left her. “You are missing a great deal of the scenery, dear _cousin,_ ” she teased, taking a bite of sugar biscuit.

“ _Au contraire_ ,” he parried. “I have not missed a single thing.” He took a sip of his tea, black, Amelia noted, with a squeeze of lemon. “You seem pleased?”

There was a long pause during which Amelia battled with a smile. In the end it won out, however, and her grey eyes positively sparkled. “Thus far.”

Again the Master Criminal felt the urge to grab her up and cover her with kisses from head to toe, but he knew he must bide his time wisely and strike when the moment was right. She would guard her heart like a dragon watching over its hoard.

Of all his capers and daring escapades, Sethos reckoned if he managed to win this woman it would prove his greatest coup.

 _Not if,_ he told himself. _When._ A man had to keep up his morale, or mistakes were made.

He was not a man to doubt himself, but this woman had a way of throwing all that out the window. For all his knowledge of the world—of _women_ , there had been more than a few, truth be told, though none he had truly loved since he was a very young and extremely foolish man-child—Amelia never failed to prove unpredictable. It was refreshing as it was infuriating, but she was too smart— _too stubborn—_ to be manipulated. If she softened to him it would be genuine. There was no doubt in his mind about that.

But _how_ to thaw her?

This wasn’t a bad start, but somehow he knew that riches and luxury would not be enough by half.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *I hope my pics interspersed here aren't annoying you...This has been so fun to research and I've found so many great images!  
> **I've added a pic of the statue of Tetisheri to the previous chapter. The esteemed Snowbryneich has pointed out that now apparently there is debate that the statue might be real but the inscription added later to increase her value. Such a pretty piece of sculpture, you almost can't blame Budge for bringing her home! XD  
> ***Thank you SO very much for reading and your comments!!**


	8. Midnight In Paris

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Amelia enters upon a guessing game...

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/34100073@N03/38747820370/in/dateposted-public/)

# VIII. Midnight In Paris

 

Much later that night Sethos and Amelia indulged in a stroll along the banks of the Seine, arm in arm, happy and sated after a magnificent late supper at a restaurant the locals favored. They had been the only English in the dining room, a thing of which Sethos assured her could only mean the food was of best quality.

The wine too had been very fine, and Amelia feared she was perhaps just a _little_ drunk. She leaned a bit more than what was proper on Sethos’ arm, and he did not seem to mind, his fingers lacing with hers over his nicely formed bicep.

An observation she could not help but make, she told herself, which had nothing to do with the wine she had consumed over their easy and entertaining conversation at dinner.

She was _not_ drunk, she told herself.

She was just tired from their journey, and _content._ Paris was so beautiful at night, the gaslights twinkling like stars in the windows of the stately old buildings, reflecting upon the swift waters of the river beside them. Boats moored along the stone quayside, dark in the shadows as sleeping beasts.

And if she was really being honest, she felt… _safe_ , by Sethos’ side. It was a bit like touring this ancient city with a lion as a companion—one couldn’t help but feel a tad _invincible._

“You are uncharacteristically quiet, my dear,” Sethos goaded, perhaps struck by her silence after such animated discourse over their meal.

“How would you know?” she fired back, a twinkle in her steel grey eyes. “We have never been allowed to finish a meal together before.”

This won her a chuckle, a deep sound that tugged at something she did not yet quite know how to identify within herself. It made her feel warm and… _pliable_. A dangerous thing, that masculine sound.

“Indeed, that is true. I would be terribly taken aback if our friend Professor Emerson burst out at us here.”

“Would you? And I had thought nothing could surprise you,” needled Amelia.

“ _Should_ I expect it?” asked Sethos with a sideways look.

“If you mean did I divulge to my colleague I was going to Paris with the _Master_ _Criminal_?” She whispered the last, lending their conversation a rather theatrical air. “No, I am afraid not.”

“What _did_ you tell him?”

“Nothing, for my whereabouts in the summer are none of his concern,” Amelia related with obvious bravado.

“Indeed. And what about in the winter?” he pressed further.

The thought of her plans for the winter, or rather the lack thereof, caused Amelia’s strong jaw to clench involuntarily.

She had told Evelyn, of course, that she was going abroad, and would telegram when she knew where she was staying. Naturally as a consequence the rest of the family would have been made privy of Amelia’s plans.

She’d heard not a peep from Emerson. No farewell safe journey, or inquiries when she planned to return to start preparations for the next season.

_Next season._

What would she _do_ with herself, if she was not at Emerson’s side, up to her elbows in sand, dirt, potsherds and bone shards? Or as she liked even better, deep in a hot smelly pyramid? Would she become one of the numerous Anglo-Egyptian society ladies at Shepheard’s, hanging on with nothing real to do, entertaining herself with luncheons and little touristy side-trips, constantly haranguing those working in the field for word of their latest discoveries? For she was [in the unenlightened eyes of the Service d’Antiquities, as well as the world at large] only a woman, and she would never be able to win a firman of her own.

That she would be left as an outsider looking in was a horrifying thought, and too late did she realize she betrayed herself by squeezing Sethos’ bicep with claw-like fingers.

Aware that he’d found a sore spot, Sethos drew them to a pause in their perambulation. “Amelia—”

“And my whereabouts this winter are none of _your_ concern,” she parried, perhaps a bit more peevishly than the inquiry merited.

Sethos took it on the chin like a gentleman. Only his mouth set in a grim line betrayed that her sharp words may have scored a hit. “I realize I may have made things difficult for you.”

Rancor rose like hot lava in Amelia’s breast. By some miracle she did not yell, but only a deaf man could have missed the daggers in her tone. “That is the understatement of the century. Your actions may have _completely_ upended my career. Due to the unfortunate opinions of certain foolish male persons in the _Service_ Egyptology is _not_ an easy field for women to infiltrate. I was lucky enough to find an archeologist who was willing to treat me as an equal in Professor Emerson, but now that bridge is burning because he thinks I may have a weakness for a man who is his sworn enemy as a matter of course.”

Despite her tirade Sethos’ eyes brightened in the dark. “ _Do_ you have a weakness for said sworn enemy?”

An exasperated sound escaped Amelia’s lips, and had she had her parasol she might have struck this infuriating man. As it was she settled for waving her small fist under his nose. “I am here because it was my only recourse to prevent _you_ from committing a dastardly crime. Furthermore—”

Though she lowered her voice Sethos still pressed gloved fingers to her lips. “Not so loud, Amelia, and not here, if you please.”

Her chest rose and fell with agitation, and she was sorely tempted to bite the fingers that so presumptuously rested upon her mouth. As though he read her mind Sethos found it prudent to remove his digits from their vulnerable position. “Tell me Amelia, why do you think our friend Professor Emerson is so tolerant of your feminine presence on his expeditions?”

Amelia’s dark brows drew together in a frown. “I _fund_ his expeditions.”

“His brother is married to one of the wealthiest heiresses in England. You think his family would not do the same?”

There was a grinding sound, which Amelia belatedly realized was her own teeth. “ _And_ I am a valued member of his staff. I assure you, I carry my own weight on the dig.”

“I have no doubt that is true,” said the Master Criminal indulgently. “But that’s not the reason why he keeps you around.”

“Balderdash.”

“He’s in love with you, Amelia. Or at least, he was.”

Amelia’s heart plummeted to the ground, and she resisted the urge to pull at the lace of her high collar. Suddenly the air around them seemed so very warm. “Pure nonsense.”

Ignoring her protestations, Sethos went on, finally driving his blade home. “And how easily he gave you up, my dear. I would never let you slip through _my_ fingers so readily.”

Only for a moment did Amelia’s lip quiver before she clamped down on her emotions like a steel trap.

Not here.

Not now.

Certainly _not_ in front of _him._

“You have some very amusing ideas, _cousin._ But I will take this opportunity to remind you of the parameters of our deal. We agreed on _one month_ , and neither my plans for the winter nor my standing with Professor Emerson is _any_ of your concern.”

The Master Criminal chuckled darkly, lifting her chin with a hooked finger. “Of course, Amelia. A deal is a deal.”

However, the thought of letting Amelia go after a month—a paltry _month_!—made the most conniving back rooms of his brain spring into furious action. Already, the first day was nearly gone, and how happily it flew. “Forgive me. We shall see, eh?”

“You are an optimist.” He did not think she meant it as a deliberate barb, but somehow that made it hurt all the more. Sethos laughed to cover the ache in his heart. “Hardly.”

“Confident, then,” she amended.

Not with her.

Not really.

Nothing _ever_ went as it was supposed to, with _her._

Any other woman would have been swept utterly off her feet by now. Transportation on the Orient Express, an opulent suite in the Le Grand Hotel du Louvre, where she’d been greeted by a fresh-cut bouquet of flowers and chocolates. An extravagant candlelit dinner and an evening stroll through the most romantic city in the world… Any other woman would have been putty in his hands already, but Amelia kept her armor tight about her. It was _maddening,_ and yet Sethos loved her all the more for it.

They resumed walking, but where before Amelia had been amiable and leaning upon him with a carefree boldness inspired by their wine with dinner, now she was stiff and her heels clacked in an angry staccato upon the ancient pavers beneath their feet.

Desperate to restore the mood of bonhomie, Sethos squeezed her small mitt upon his arm. “You’ll have your hands in the dirt again this winter one way or another, Amelia. I promise you.”

Was _that_ his plan?

Amelia whirled on him with such alacrity that her boot caught between two pavers, causing her to stumble. Never a man to let an opportunity go amiss, Sethos caught her with a steady arm about her waist, pulling her near. Despite their closeness Amelia drove a finger into his chest. “I do not believe that is a promise you can make. For if you think I could ever be so desperate to engage in _any_ form of archeology that I would join you in illicit digging you are sorely mistaken, _sir_.”

Again Sethos hissed in a reminder to keep her voice down. Perhaps in her ire she _had_ said that a bid loudly. A tendril of wiry dark hair had come loose from her coiffure, and naturally it found its way into her mouth. Tenderly he reached up to brush it away, tucking it behind her ear.

“I know, Amelia. Believe it or not, it is not my wish to corrupt you _that_ far.”

The heat of anger _may_ have given way to something as equally warming, her heart thundering in her chest even as it melted a little. Suddenly it was hard to breathe, and Amelia knew, damn him, that it had nothing to do with her loosely tied corset.

She was afraid to ask how far he _did_ intend to corrupt her.

“Mr. Sethos _—”_

“ _Ssssss_. Mr. _Rochester_ , remember?”

A small sound of frustration escaped her.

His mouth was exceedingly close to her ear, his breath warm on her skin. Her knees, the traitors, trembled.

“ _Mr. Rochester_ indeed,” she grumbled. “You have a penchant for literary aliases. _Detective Gregson, the smartest of the Scotland Yarders._ ”

A chuckle emitted from deep in his chest. “Brushed up on your Sherlock Holmes since January, have you?”

She had, in fact, and at reading that line she’d nearly thrown the book out the window. Had she only known at the time—perhaps she would not be there now, in Paris, in his arms… She should have felt regret for her own ignorance, but somehow the correct emotions were not forthcoming.

“I certainly hope you have no one shut up in your attic.”

“No, fear not on that score. Perhaps I just have sympathy for a man with a secret—and a hopeless love for a woman who is stubborn as a mule.”

“How flattering,” deadpanned Amelia, even as a damning thrill shot through her bones. “I wish you would tell me your real name,” she grumbled, annoyed with herself as much as him.

Sethos drew back to regard her, the tip of his nose nearly touching hers. “I would like to tell you, Amelia. I want to tell you everything. But not here, and not now, and you know very well why.”

Amelia sighed. He offered her the most tantalizing secrets, but only at a great price. A price she wasn’t sure she was willing to pay. A glitter entered those chameleon orbs, irises which appeared grey now in the moonlight. “I would allow you to guess, if you like, when we are in a more private setting.”

“Like Rumpelstiltskin?” she groused. “If I guess right will you grant me a wish?”

A low chuckle pulled from deep in his chest. “Haven’t I been doing that already?”

She poked him through the layers of his waistcoat and shirt, with decidedly less gusto than before. This time she couldn’t help but notice how _solid_ he was underneath his clothing. Quite without her permission her cheeks warmed, and she was ever so grateful it was too dark to betray her.

“I might point out it has been _your_ wish that has been granted, not mine.”

Sethos pressed his hand over his heart, as though she’d struck him a blow. “That may be true. What would _you_ wish for, Amelia, if you could have anything in the world?” asked Sethos.

 _The right to conduct her own excavations_ Amelia immediately thought, but dared not say it aloud. “I suppose we’ll have to save that for when I deduce your true name, sir.”

This won her a small bark of laughter. “Touché, darling, touché. You’ll laugh when you do. It will seem entirely too obvious.”

Amelia canted her head, considering this clue. “May I venture a guess?”

“Not here.”

When her lip extended in a pout Amelia marveled at herself, watching from the outside looking in. She was _flirting,_ and by the sparkle in Sethos’ eyes she would say rather well too _._

Looking around, Amelia raised an eyebrow. The quay was dark, and no one was really about nearby except far above, walking on the sidewalk. It occurred to her that she allowed herself to be led into what could have been a compromising position—how she trusted this man now boggled the mind. “No one is here,” she whispered conspiratorially, enjoying their game perhaps _too_ much.

“You might be surprised what a shadow can hold,” cautioned Sethos, eyeing a dark patch beyond a set of stone stairs. “Though there is a condition that might convince me. What shall I receive if you guess wrong?”

Amelia affected outrage. “I must _pay_ for my guesses?”

“You might consider it is a dangerous game for me to play.”

“I suppose that is true. There’s no telling what I might do with such coveted information,” she sniffed. “Very well. What is your price?”

Momentarily his eyes descended to her lips, before returning to meet hers. “I think you can guess what I might desire.”

Her heart gave a mighty _tha-thump_ in her chest, and her stomach proceeded to execute three somersaults. “Cad.” The accusation had no real reproof in it what-so-ever, and his lips curled in a knowing smile.

“If you say so. A kiss for a query. Have we a bargain?”

Her own gaze strayed to that well-drawn mouth, before retreating again. She managed to hold out precisely four seconds before giving her consent. “We have.”

She felt his grip tighten a little upon her waist, and she didn’t think it was entirely conscious. It was the only tell that gave away his excitement. “Then guess away, my darling Amelia.”

She pondered a few seconds. Something obvious, he had said. Did that mean it was something common? “John?”

His mouth descended to hers, brushing her own in a gentle kiss that curled her fingers in his lapels and stole the breath right from her lungs. When he began to draw away she quickly conjectured, “Michael?”

Again, his mouth touched hers, longer this time, with a bit more delicious pressure. He tasted of the wine they’d had at dinner, and…him. It could only be simply _him._ It ignited a simmering heat in her belly that went about the task of melting her bones.

He drew away a scant centimeter before she tried again. “George?”

A low sound from deep in his throat escaped him, and he fell upon her again, pulling her closer with that large hand splayed at the small of her back, his fingers disappearing into the carefully wound curls of her coiffure. Kissing him was like liquid heaven, a molten heat spreading through her veins. Her own hands strayed up behind the column of his neck, holding him to her.

This time he had to tear himself away, and before she could utter another name, _any name,_ the most absurd thing that first came to mind—Lamp Post? House Boat?—he moved his mouth to her temple. “That’s enough for now, Amelia. Unless you want me to commit something rather untoward here in public. My God, how you undo me.” His breathing was rather ragged, and Amelia found something fiercely proud welled within her, that somehow she inspired such ardor in a man such as this.

She’d always thought herself…perhaps not _unattractive_ , but not appealing in the traditional sense. She never imagined this sort of feminine power could belong to her, and now that she had tasted it she understood how it could become addicting to wield.

Especially with a man like the one who stood before her, his hands loosely resting on her waist again.

He made her forget they were in public at all, but perhaps it would have proved dangerous to admit such a thing to him. She was tempted to throw out one more name, just to have the last word… But something in his eyes cautioned her against it. Something lurked behind the wall of civility, something wild and free and she found she was ever so tempted in that moment to throw open the latch of the carefully constructed enclosure just for a glimpse inside.

“My apologies. I’ve never really—well, except for once—been kissed, before you came along. I’m finding…it’s not so bad,” she admitted, her cheeks flaming as she did so.

“I am overjoyed to hear that,” admitted Sethos, the twinkle of laughter returning to his eyes as he lifted his hand to caress her cheek. “Don’t apologize, dear Amelia. Never for that.” He narrowed his eyes, studying her closely. “ _Except for once_ , eh? By whom, may I ask?”

It really sounded more like a demand, and Amelia bolstered her citadel, standing up straighter. “ _That_ is none of your concern.”

“So, Professor Emerson was sneaking kisses in after all? How scandalous!”

His tone was light, and yet there was something underneath the frivolous words. Something hard, and it made Amelia bristle. “I resent your assumption in use of the plural,” she defended, giving herself away. “It was only the once, and he only did it because we were under fire and he thought we were going to perish.”

Sethos raised an eyebrow at that. “If you think the only reason a man would steal a kiss from you is imminent death, my dear, you are daft. Did you like his kiss too?”

She knew what he was really angling at. She knew all too well, and she didn’t think she could lie convincingly enough to fool this man who dealt in deceit every day.

_I never loved Radcliffe Emerson._

What utter balderdash, and he would know it too. He knew _far_ too much.

“Well. I too thought there was a chance we were going to perish, with gunfire hailing all around…”

“That’s hardly an answer,” he needled.

“It all happened rather fast.”

“Indeed? What a shame.”

“I hate to inform you that jealousy does not become you.”

Sethos’ smile was like a wolf baring his teeth.

“You must be _tired_ , my love. Shall we return to the hotel?”

Amelia resisted the urge to insist she was not tired in the least, thinking that perhaps a chance to regroup was needed. His questions and inferences about Emerson—never mind his kisses—left her feeling unbalanced, and some time to herself free from his all-too-penetrating gaze would be welcome.

“Yes, if you please.”

“Very well. Come on, then.” The rest of their riverside walk was conducted in what Amelia feared was an all-too-companionable silence. Once more they constructed the picture of a perfectly respectable lady and gentleman returning from an evening stroll.

Only a very astute observer would have noticed that Amelia’s coiffure was slightly askew, and the front of Sethos’ cravat was just a tad rumpled.

Ah, but it was midnight in Paris, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Walking along the Seine is probably my favorite thing to do in Paris. Aside from eating. XD 
> 
> Thank you SO much for reading and your comments!


	9. Abominable Timing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Perhaps propriety could go to the devil…

# IX – Abominable Timing

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/34100073@N03/45410856901/in/dateposted-public/)

 

Days in Paris in the Master Criminal’s company passed in what felt like a whirlwind of joy and exploration. A body could play tourist in that delightful city for years on end and still not see it all, but they certainly gave it their best effort. However it was little surprise that the antiquities ranked as both their favorites, and they made multiple trips to the Louvre to view the Egyptian collections.

The monumental _Obélisque de Louxor_ captivated them now, and with wonder they stood in the Place de la Concorde with heads craned to take in all 23 meters of its glory. “And they call _me_ a thief,” marveled Sethos under his breath, shaking his head slightly. “Even I think it’s a shame they made off with this one.”

“The Luxor Temple does lack a certain symmetry without it,” Amelia agreed, peering out from under the brim of her second best hat.

“Ramses would not be so pleased about this one, you must agree,” insisted Sethos cheekily, thinking back on their old friend in Gallery Four.

“No, I think not. Though he might have been impressed by the engineering it took to get it here.”

“Perhaps. What now, darling? We have yet to see the Tour d’Eiffel?”

“Oh, that wretched thing. It is so ugly!”

“Ugly?” Sethos laughed. “It is a marvel of modern engineering!”

“An _unsightly_ marvel. I confess my feet are a trifle tired, and we are going to the Opéra tonight. Would you mind if we returned to the hotel for a rest?”

“Your wish is my command.” Sethos hailed a cab, and they enjoyed an open air ride through the Tuilleries Gardens back to the Grande Hotel du Louvre. When Sethos put his arm around her shoulders Amelia did not balk, leaning against him with bold disregard for propriety. They could be anyone here among strangers—it was almost _too_ easy to pretend they were not breaking every rule in the book here in _La Ville Lumière_. Not since setting out for her first tour of the world had Amelia felt so bold, daring, and _free._

 

~//~

 

“It is no wonder you are in pain,” teased Sethos, peering at Amelia’s footwear over the rim of his teacup. They sat together in the opulent common area of their suite, upon one of its tufted settees that provided a sufficient no-man’s land between their chambers. “I would have thought you of all women would have brought more sensible footwear.”

Amelia looked down at her feet appraisingly. Her boots were tight and pointed and boasted an infuriating amount of small buttons. The sacrifices a woman makes for the sake of fashion…in contrast Sethos’ own shoes appeared decidedly more comfortable, practical, and still looked perfectly smart. It really was not fair.

“I thought it might be a tad gauche to tromp around Paris in my work boots,” she admitted. Though decidedly more practical for walking, they were large and heavy and did not compliment summer cupro.

Setting down his cup, Sethos extended a hand, crooking his finger. “Give them here.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Your feet, which you claim to be paining you. I won’t have it, poor girl.”

“I’m not sure what you propose to do about it,” groused Amelia.

“You’ll see.” Undaunted by her frown, again he gestured for the surrender of her foot with his fingers.

Amelia found herself holding her breath, suspecting she knew what he intended and it was not proper in the least. But those strong hands…oh, it could be lovely. Naturally, no one had ever offered such a thing before.

“They’re _feet,_ Amelia,” teased Sethos. “Surely you are not as prudish as our honored monarch?”

Victoria’s ideas on such things could be overbearing to _absurd,_ it was true…

“Just my feet,” she insisted.

“Of course. I promise.” He held up one of those elegant hands as though taking an oath, and Amelia couldn’t help but sigh for the absurdity of the mater. Tentatively she lifted one booted foot, which Sethos drew into in his lap and deftly undid the numerous little buttons. With fascination she watched his clever fingers make short work of the fastenings; it inspired her imagination in the most embarrassing fashion, and an inconvenient blush colored her cheeks.

Sethos pretended not to notice.

When the boot was removed Amelia could not repress a sigh of relief, but he did not stop there. Strong thumbs massaged the arch of her foot, and she bit down on a sound that would have been mightily embarrassing to let out into the open air. She sat bolt upright, watching his attentions like a hawk.

“Relax, Amelia,” Sethos coaxed. “You are still covered from neck to ankle, are you not?” He punctuated this assessment by tracing the hem of her skirt at the spur of bone on the outside of her ankle, winning a gasp that ignited a mischievous sparkle in his hazel eyes. However the Master Criminal knew better than to push his luck, and returned to paying attentions to the joints of her toes.

His hands were _heaven,_ and it was possible that for a moment—just a scant moment—she let down her guard enough to close her eyes. The MC’s hands dwarfed her foot, and another squeeze in just the right locale caused Amelia to sigh and settle further down into her chair. “Yes, but I seem to be melting.”

The Master Criminal gave a low chuckle that tugged at Amelia’s insides in the most exasperating way. “All part of my _dastardly_ plan, obviously.”

Made suitably pliable, Amelia submitted without a fight when he gestured for her other nethermost appendage. “You have such pretty feet,” he complimented, caressing the curve of the appendage in question in way that made her curl her toes. “Keep wearing those devilish shoes and you’ll ruin them.” He pinched her pinky toe in emphasis, winning a sleepy curl of lips.

“Work boots it is, then,” she teased. “It won’t embarrass you if I wear them to _Aida_ tonight?”

“Heavens no. Not that anyone will be looking at your feet. I assume you’ll wear your usual fetching crimson?”

“You shall just have to wait and see.”

Sethos’ shoulders shook with silent laughter. “I hope you are; I rather depended on it when I selected this.”

Amelia watched as he reached for a side table, and her eyes widened as he extracted a stunningly decorated box from a drawer. “Oh dear. What have you done?”

“Something you’ll like, I hope. Open it.”

He handed her the container, carved of ebony decorated with hieroglyphs in silver overlay. It was necklace sized, she noted, and she found herself holding her breath as she cradled it in her hands. When she steeled herself to opening it a long sigh of relief escaped her.

Sethos laughed audibly this time. “My God, did you expect an adder?” he teased.

Amelia turned those steely grey eyes up to his, a finger caressing the cool contents of the box. It was a gold collar and earrings set— _real_ gold, she deduced by the weight. The necklace—nearly a pectoral!—boasted a winged scarab motif set with delicately carved onyx cabochons and beads. It was breathtaking, stunningly manufactured, but most importantly and something she deduced immediately with her well-trained eye: _not_ ancient.

“Oh my. How beautiful. You shouldn’t have.”

Clearly this was not the reaction Sethos had hoped for. “You were afraid I would bestow you with stolen jewels.”

“I find I do not care so much if they were _stolen,_ so long as they were not wrested from an ancient burial site without first being documented.”

The Master Criminal guffawed incredulously. “Indeed? I wish I’d known, I could have saved myself a pretty penny rather than buying it outright. This is my thanks for trying things the honest way,” he exclaimed mournfully, those chameleon eyes glittering with laughter. Today, with the sun shining through the tall windows of their suite, they looked very green.

Amelia’s smile widened for his theatrics. “Well, perhaps I wouldn’t want you to plunder a jewelry shoppe on my account.”

“Then put yourself at ease, my lady. I did make you a promise, after all.”

She certainly hadn’t _noticed_ him amidst any shady dealings thus far during their time together, though he did send telegrams from the front desk every day.

Amelia had sent one of her own, point in fact, to Evelyn as where to find her. She would have been terribly surprised if Sethos did not know about it, and he had yet to voice an objection. Of course, she had not sent anything incriminating over the wire.

Realizing she was behaving like an ingrate, Amelia offered an apologetic smile. “I think the honest path has become you very well thus far.”

“Has it?” Sethos reached up to trace the curve of her cheek, and Amelia’s eyes slid closed with expectation. How far she had fallen, from steadfastly refusing his hand on the train at the beginning of their journey, to accepting— _soliciting!—_ his kisses on a daily basis. The name game carried on, in the darker corners of the Louvre and the secret grottos of the Tuilleries. She’d even been so bold as to bait him in broad daylight a day ago, pondering aloud upon the _Pont des Arts_ with the Seine rushing beneath their feet, _I cannot decide if you more resemble a Thomas or a Christopher._ Both were incorrect guesses, which he’d communicated by grabbing her up in front of a throng of American tourists and kissing her silly.

But the kiss she expected in that present moment did not come, and Amelia opened one eye to investigate what staid him. The Master Criminal had not moved an inch, and he gazed upon her with a warmth in his eyes that sent frissons of tingles down her spine. In a very rare event of history Amelia found she could not speak, caught in his hypnotic gaze. Perhaps his eyes were brown today after all?

“You are the most precious treasure I have ever laid eyes upon, Amelia,” Sethos finally imparted, and pressed his lips to her forehead with the gentleness of a brush of a butterfly’s wing. Next he kissed her eyelids, and the tip of her nose, and suddenly the sensation that her heart could not _quite_ fit in her own chest came over Amelia.

It was she who closed the distance between their lips, a delicate brush of mouths that made her hands tremble. Seeking purchase upon something to hold on to, she found the lapel of his brocade waistcoat, and marveled at herself as greedily she pulled him nearer. Briefly she felt him smile against her mouth before long fingers slid into her hair and his lips claimed hers, a low sound that was almost a growl emitting from deep in his chest. Vaguely Amelia was aware of several of her hairpins escaping her coiffure to fall to the ground, landing soundlessly upon the thick Oriental rug below.

_Let down your tresses, oh my beloved…_

Those long fingers combed through her wiry black curls, eliciting the most delicious sensations of pleasure to course down her spine. When she tilted her head with a sigh of approval Sethos took it as invitation to trace the line of her jaw with his lips, kissing her upon that delicate and apparently vulnerable flesh behind her ear.

“ _Oh_ …”

It was the most she could articulate at the moment, and it seemed the Master Criminal felt the same limitations in kind. She continued to pull upon the lapels of his waistcoat in what was an almost mindless _need_ to have him nearer, a thing of which the MC seemed to take as invitation. Those strong hands scooped her up easily, drawing her into his lap, his arms like bands of iron about her waist. Startled, Amelia sat upright, steadying herself with hands upon his shoulders. Her hair waved to either side of her face in what she imagined must be frightful _dishabille._

Little did she know the alluring picture she made for the man before her.

They stared at each other for what felt like a good long hour, though it only could have been a few pregnant seconds. “Too far?” he asked quietly, wondering if he’d ruined their moment in his brash enthusiasm.

Amelia could hear her own heartbeat thundering in her ears, and a warm flush came over her from head to toe. Was this what Evelyn had tried to explain to her all those years ago? How in the heat of such a moment a woman did not _want_ to stop a man’s attentions, even when she knew every ounce of her honor depended upon her fortitude? It seemed so _silly_ in that moment—she was eight and thirty and not getting any younger. Perhaps propriety could go to the devil…

Pressing her lips, Amelia shook her head minutely. “Perhaps not,” she answered in the same hushed tone. “But mind those hands, Mr. Sethos. They are too clever by far.”

“You haven’t seen the half of it, but I shall put them on their best behavior,” he assured her, laughter and something else sparkling in his eyes. He was _breathtaking_ in that moment, and it was not fair in the _least._ Drawn like a fish on a hook, Amelia leaned towards him once more.

Just as her lips were about to touch his the door to the suite swung open, and Miss Markham’s pretty falsetto filled the room.

Despite her rebellious thoughts about propriety just moments ago, Amelia stiffened ram-rod straight upon Sethos’ lap. By her expression one might have thought she’d been caught amidst committing murder rather than exchanging afternoon kisses on the settee. By contrast Sethos slouched nonchalantly in his seat, a single dark eyebrow raised with annoyance.

When the girl noticed Amelia and her employer in what might have been termed _en flagrante delicto_ she gasped, then stifled a girlish giggle in the armful of fresh towels she carried.

“Miss Markham, your timing is abominable,” scolded Sethos coolly. “Do go away, if you please.”

“Begging your pardon, sir!”

The girl’s muffled laughter trailed after her as she disappeared into Amelia’s bedchamber across the room.

“Good Gad!” Amelia exclaimed, leaping to her feet. She knew her face must resemble a ripe tomato by the burning sensation that spread across her skin.

“I don’t think she would make a successful career as a maid in a conventional household,” mused Sethos lightly. He lounged with all the ease and confidence of a large cat of the Serengeti upon the settee, and Amelia couldn’t suppress a frown.

“I am glad you are so amused.” _At her expense_ rang unsaid in the air.

“Oh darling, don’t be cross.” Sethos took her hand, pressing his lips to her knuckles.

“I am not cross. I am mortified. There is a difference.” She took back her hand, folding her arms defensively. Sethos watched her draw into herself like a turtle into its shell, and the Master Criminal was amazed by how little it took to send his heart into a freefall when he’d been in the clouds only moments before.

A long silence ensued, and with every second that went by Sethos had to fight the urge to fall to his knees before her. Why did nothing _ever_ go as it should when Amelia Peabody was involved?

Finally rather than torture himself with inferences as to her cognitions that painted him a doomed man, he dared ask, “A penny for your thoughts?”

Amelia’s mouth set in a grim line. She was _thinking_ how she entered this caper with the intention of reforming the man before her, but thus far it seemed only _she_ was the one who had allowed herself to be changed. How easy it was to inhabit this sinful world of pleasure and vice with Sethos. Like a frog placed in gradually boiling water, at this rate would she even notice when they reached a point of no return?

Not eager to share these ruminations, Amelia deflected with a reproachful look towards the door whence Miss Markham has disappeared. “You are correct in that she would not do well in a conventional domestic setting.” The girl was bright and exuberant and always singing out loud. She also had a tendency to speak to Amelia as an equal with insatiable curiosity when they were alone. None of these were qualities that Amelia thought should be stifled in a person, but a different employer would surely not appreciate them. “We shall have to find her a husband, I suppose.”

Sethos’ mouth twisted in a wry smile. “Planning to marry her off already? She’s very young, Amelia. Seventeen, if a day.”

Amelia’s brows rose sky high. “Where _did_ you find her?”

“Her father was a business associate of mine. He died. Her mother passed on years ago. With no one left to protect her, her rotten brother had ideas of profiting from her youthful good looks. I put a stop to it.”

“Oh. Oh my. Did you find her before…”

“Do you think she would possess such a sunny disposition if I hadn’t?”

Amelia breathed a sigh of relief. “She is a remarkably cheerful little thing.”

“But don’t be fooled. That girl is the finest pickpocket I’ve seen since I myself was a boy on the street. If you weren’t in my company I would warn you to keep an eye on your jewels.”

Amelia paid little attention to this jest. It was the other part of Sethos’ statement that interested Amelia the most. It came as no surprise to hear he’d been on the street as a child, but the words falling so casually from his silver tongue caused an inexplicable ache in Amelia’s breast.

“Were you very young when you were turned out?” she asked quietly.

The twinkling light in Sethos’ eyes dimmed. She _would_ fixate upon the part of his statement he didn’t particularly wish to discuss. But the desire to be _known_ by her burned brighter than the embarrassment of his humble beginnings. “Twelve,” he admitted. “And tall for my age, which was a lucky stroke. It saved me from some of the indignities the smaller street rats endured.”

“What happened to your parents?”

“They died too early and too poor,” he answered quickly, standing from the settee. “Why don’t you lie down for a rest, darling? We have a long night ahead.”

Amelia let him parry her inquiry, accepting a chaste kiss upon the forehead before the Master Criminal retreated to his own room. She watched his lithe figure go, long legs eating up the distance in a few strides. There was a decided ache in her breast as she looked upon him, and the urge to follow him and insist he tell her more.

Wisely, she let it go for now, determining that she would have it out of him eventually.

One way, or another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *LOL as iconic as it is today, many people found the Eiffel Tower to be pretty dang fugly at the time it was built in 1887..  
> **cupro was a fine cotton fabric, lightweight and good for summer wear, felt like silk but easier to wash. Apparently.  
> ***I'm sorry for the lull in between chapters! I do have a few more written now. As ever, thank you for reading, and your comments make my day!


	10. The Better Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exquisite pain.  
> That was what Sethos felt when he looked upon Amelia...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I added a graphic to the previous chapter as well as this one, bc I'm a huge nerd and I finally had time to make some...

# X-The Better Man

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/34100073@N03/45410856031/in/dateposted-public/)

 

Penny hummed under her breath as she arranged Amelia’s hair into an elaborate coiffure, little lines from popular songs escaping here and there. Amelia recognized Gilbert and Sullivan.

“You have a lovely voice, Penny.”

“Thank you ma’am.” Usually the girl would not shy from meeting Amelia’s eyes in the mirror, but after their little scene she kept her gaze cast down. Despite the embarrassment the incident had caused her, Amelia felt rather wretched for it.

“Is music something you might like to pursue?” she prodded further, hoping to induce the confidential air of companionship they had shared before. This pretty young thing had escaped circumstances Amelia could hardly fathom, and she could not resist the impulse to mother the girl a little.

Amelia watched in the mirror as a shadow of a spritely smile curled the girl’s lips. “Oh yes ma’am. There’s nothing I’d like more than to have a go on the stage at the Moulin Rouge, or Le Chat Noir.”

At mention of these disreputable establishments Amelia’s dark brows shot sky high. “Good Gad! The _Moulin Rouge_? Penny, that is hardly a place for—”

The girl’s bright laughter cut Amelia off. “Beggin’ your pardon, ma’am, but the Opéra ain’t exactly open to a lowly girl like me.”

“Well, not immediately, perhaps. It would take hard work, and training…” Amelia didn’t have the heart to point out that few of the players at the Opéra came from respectable stock either. Penny pressed her lips, but the sparkle in her blue eyes revealed she was holding in her laughter, at Amelia’s expense. “Well. At any rate, after our trip is over perhaps something can be arranged. I am sure Mr. Sethos would not object.”

This time Penny’s lips split in a wide fey grin. “Oh, not if you were on my side! He’ll do anything for you.”

Amelia felt the annoying heat of a blush beginning to flush her cheeks. “That is an exaggeration, but he obviously cares about your future.”

Penny giggled whilst skewering a curl into place. “He loves you very much, Miss Peabody. Anyone with two eyes can see it.”

Amelia feared that in a few moments her cheeks would match the color of her crimson gown. “Perhaps.”

“And I think you like him quite a bit too.”

Amelia’s stomach did three somersaults. Was _she_ so transparent? Well…the child had caught them snogging on the settee earlier that day, and Amelia supposed she certainly would not have appeared unwilling. The thought of those kisses caused a spear of heat to make its way through Amelia’s core, and her voice came sharper than she meant for it to. “That’s quite enough of that, Penny.”

Miss Merriweather shut her mouth, but her shoulders trembled with suppressed giggles, clearly undaunted. However, in a few moments her expression sobered. “He ain’t to be trifled with, Miss Peabody, but the Master takes care of his own. He’s a good man. He rescued me, you know.”

Amelia nodded, meeting the girl’s eyes in the mirror. “I know. And I am very glad he did.”

“Me too.” The girl put the finishing touch upon Amelia’s coiffure, winding a string of jet and gold beads through raven curls. “Perfection, Miss Peabody. You’ll be the belle of the ball.”

Amelia raised an eyebrow at that, regarding herself in the mirror. Once she would have contradicted such a statement with a full catalogue of her faults. Her strong chin, wide mouth, large nose, and piercing storm grey eyes. But tonight…perhaps she did look rather well. She pressed a hand to her bare throat, finding her skin almost feverish to the touch. The cold metal of that stunning gold necklace would be a relief.

“You should let the Master put it on,” said Penny, extracting one of the matching earrings from the elaborate wood box and carefully threading it through Amelia’s pierced ear. “A man likes that, you know. My father always did for me mum.”

Amelia pressed her lips, looking down at the extravagant gold collar. “I wouldn’t know,” she admitted. “My mother died when I was very young.” Somehow, she couldn’t imagine her quiet scholarly father making a grand romantic gesture of presenting jewels to his mate, but perhaps once upon a time he had.

“Sorry to hear that, ma’am.”

Amelia paid the girl a brave smile. “Not to disparage my age, but it was a rather long time ago.”

When Amelia exited her rooms to join Sethos in their parlor both were momentarily struck dumb. Sethos was resplendent in evening kit, his tall fit figure displayed to perfection in a black and white tuxedo. The sight of Amelia in her crimson frock took the Master Criminal’s breath away, though at the sight of her bare throat his expression slightly fell. Did she not care for her new jewels? Only belatedly did he realize Amelia clasped the box in her hands.

“Would you do me the honor?”

His voice stuck in his throat, Sethos nodded, and the way his eyes cast over her made something indefinable ache low in her belly. No man had ever looked that way at her before, not to her knowledge at any rate.

With deft fingers Sethos extracted the gold collar from its case and circled round Amelia. She could not repress a shudder as the cool metal slid about her throat, and his fingers brushed the sensitive skin at the base of her neck as he fixed the clasp. “You are a vision, Amelia,” said the Master Criminal, daring to plant a single kiss upon the exposed skin of her shoulder. “I am the luckiest of men.”

Amelia could not stop her eyes from slipping closed, a small sigh escaping her. She reckoned she had better face her escort for the evening—there was too much mischief he could wreak with her back turned.

“Thank you,” she said, caressing her necklace, and her voice sounded strange even to her ears. “It’s lovely.”

The intensity with which Sethos regarded her made her knees tremble. The place upon her shoulder where his lips had been just moments before _burned._ “It suits you,” he complimented, turning up her chin with a gentle finger. “A woman like you deserves to be showered with gold and jewels.”

Amelia chuckled lightly at the absurdity of this statement, but soon her mirth died as Sethos descended and his lips brushed hers. “Don’t laugh,” he scolded with a twinkle in his eyes. They appeared grey-green that night. “It’s true.”

This time it was Amelia who leaned in for another kiss, a long but somehow chaste press of lips that thrilled her to her toes. Utterly lost, her fingers involuntarily curled in his white waistcoat. When she realized she was rumpling his immaculate attire Amelia released him. “Oh dear. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” said Sethos with a shaky chuckle, pressing his forehead to hers. “You may rumple me to your heart’s content.” Reluctantly he drew away, offering his arm. “But if we do not leave now I fear we won’t go at all.” The look Sethos paid her could have melted an iceberg, and that he would like nothing more than to lock himself in this room with Amelia for the remainder of the evening rang unsaid in the air. Her breath caught in her throat, she couldn’t help but worry at her lower lip for the sinful thought.

But _would_ it be such a sin? These were rules made up by men, after all, in the interest of protecting their daughters, who were also considered their property. Amelia was nearly forty and had never really known the touch of a man. Only until recently did she begin to have an inkling of just what she was missing, and it made her feel inexplicably _wild_ inside, like something long dormant had been called up from the depths of her heart by his poetic words and his insouciant smile and those sparkling chameleon eyes...

When the silence drew on Sethos faltered beneath that frank grey gaze, suddenly quite intent on the polished toes of his shoes. “Forgive me. _Cad_ , I know—”

“No,” interrupted Amelia, taking his arm. “You flatter me. But perhaps I agree that we had best depart?”

For one priceless moment it appeared Amelia had struck Sethos dumb, his well-formed mouth gaping in a surprised “O”. However he quickly recovered, and not a thing in the world could have stopped him from pressing his mouth to hers in another gentle kiss. “Have I mentioned of late how madly in love I am with you?”

A sound somewhere between a sigh and a tittering laugh escaped Amelia. It was damn near _girlish,_ and she marveled at the effect this man had upon her composure. “You may have mentioned it once or twice,” she teased quietly, and with fascination she watched Sethos’ broad chest rise and fall with a deep steadying breath.

Suddenly he felt like the king of the world with this woman on his arm, and with a private smile the Master Criminal took up his gold capped stick and top hat. Greaves, who managed to ignore what was going on in the room before him with expert aplomb, opened the door for them with a pointedly blank expression. However, had the pair glanced back, they might have noticed the imposing man’s usually stern mouth pulled slightly at the corners in his own version of a grin. Joy was an infectious thing, it seemed, even for street-hardened toughs in the employ of a Master Criminal.

 

~//~

 

Throughout the evening Amelia found herself hyper-aware of her companion. His sleeve brushing her bare upper arm in the carriage sent such a flare across her nerves he might have touched her with his bare hands. At dinner over their aperitif of _kir p_ _êche_ she could not tear her gaze from his lips upon his glass nor the column of his throat as he swallowed. The partaking of a meal had never seemed so sensual—perhaps she could blame the excellent quality of the food, _filet de canard_ so tender it melted in the mouth—or perhaps just Paris itself.

 _Perhaps_ she was losing her mind.

She wasn’t the only one. Sethos too seemed aware in this change in the air between them. He did not gloat, but smiled gently when he caught her staring too long from across the table.

Amelia both anticipated and dreaded the carriage ride to the _Opéra_. Closed up in a dark place with this man after a few glasses of wine—it seemed inevitable that _something_ would happen. But aside from handing her up into the cab he barely touched her, only daring so much as to take her gloved hand in his for the duration of the ride.

Sitting on pins and needles, Amelia felt as though she might explode.

He was up to something, surely. He was behaving too well by half. What was _wrong_ with her?

Ensconced in their box, like their own private world from which to watch Verdi’s Egyptian drama of _Aida_ unfold, it was a wonder Amelia managed to pay attention at all. Sethos whispered his comments in her ear about the scenery, the costumes, so very grand, but naturally to an expert eye not _quite_ correct. She managed to quip back, and his quiet laughter, his soft breath stirring the curls at the back of her neck, raised gooseflesh all down her arms and spine. His fingertips traced the inside of her gloved arm, a touch light as a spring breeze, and yet it raised such an unfamiliar cacophony inside Amelia that she thought she might faint.

Amelia _never_ fainted.  

This was what _they_ were talking about, she realized. All the lovers and poets who up until that crystal clear moment Amelia had found self-absorbed, overdramatic, and full of fanciful nonsense.

_Desire._

It really could make a woman feel as though she were going mad.

 

~//~

 

_Exquisite pain._

That was what Sethos felt when he looked upon Amelia. It was like a fist contracted about his heart—a merciless hand made of need, uncertainty, and _fear_. Deep down, he dreaded he would never be able to pull this off. That surely in the end the grand novelty of his mystery would wear out, and she would come to her senses about him.

The belief bordered on superstition, but Sethos knew the people he loved had a way of slipping through his fingers. His father. His mother. The first girl he ever…

_Damnation._

In the beginning he’d tried not to love Amelia. For her sake. For his. But after months of sleepless nights, countless hours in which he could think of nothing else—in the end the heart wants what the heart wants, or so it would seem. His certainly hadn’t taken any mercy on him.

Something had changed between them now. He felt it keenly, as he handed her up into the carriage after _Aida_ ’s thunderous and tragic conclusion, in the way her fingers lingered upon his. In the way she looked upon him with those startling steel grey eyes held too wide. He could almost feel her pulse through her gloves beating frantically as a trapped bird.

A less observant man might have attributed this to the presentation of jewels, but Sethos knew Amelia better than that. The kiss on the settee, perhaps, or his light touch whilst clasping that heavy gold collar about her neck—he’d woken something in her, something she probably hadn’t even known was there herself, so complete was the training women of her class received in denying themselves. She was aware of herself now as a woman, and he as a man, and what that could mean given a chance to explore it.

She trembled when he touched her chin lightly, turning her face up to his in the shadowed privacy of the swaying carriage. Some dark hunter’s instinct that lived in the oldest parts of man’s brain told him she was his at last, but his higher functions warned him not to trust this.

Not with her.

Lightly he brushed her lips with his, winning the sweetest sigh that ignited a clamor inside him greater than even the most robust orchestral numbers of the performance they’d just witnessed.

Only when they arrived back at their hotel, returned to the neutral ground that was the adjoining area of their suite, did Sethos note something so rare it was nigh inexplicable in Amelia’s manner. Her hand shook as she accepted her nightcap of whiskey and soda, and he realized she was _afraid._

That she was fearful that he would grab her up and ravish her at the conclusion of their grand night out on the town, or that she would happily let him, he did not know.

_Cad._

That was what she thought of him. Had come to accept, even, as a part of him perhaps not even she could reform.

 _Of course_ he had hoped to seduce her that night, as any flesh and blood man would. He’d laid every stone of the plan perfectly with compliments and gifts and kisses, dinner and wine and lavish entertainment. There was no secret—any fool could see it, and Amelia was no fool. Did she loathe that even she could prove vulnerable to such overtures?

A flash of angry rebellion ignited through Sethos like a fire in a pan. Fury—with himself—with he didn’t know _what_. The universe, perhaps, and the laughing gods who watched this predictable mortal dance. In that moment he determined to be the better man than even Amelia hoped he could be.

“Good night, Amelia,” he said after they finished their drinks. “Thank you for a most enjoyable evening. Sweet dreams.” He did not even kiss her cheek in the continental style, but settled for brushing his lips across her knuckles before retreating to his own room with nary a look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! As you well know, your comments make my day! <3<3<3


	11. Thank God—Or The Devil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As usual, Amelia surprises the Master Criminal.

# XI. – Thank God—Or The Devil

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/34100073@N03/44814484974/in/dateposted-public/)

 

Flabbergasted, Amelia watched him go. At any moment she expected him to turn back with a puckish smile, to stride back across the expensive rug and take her into his arms.

The door of his room closed with a hushed _click,_ and she sat frozen to the spot, staring at the place where only moments ago he’d just been. Had she not known better, she might have characterized that as a _retreat._

A long shuddering sigh deflated her chest. A breath it felt she’d been holding since sitting down to their supper. Only now that he was gone could she admit to herself that this was _not_ how she’d expected the conclusion of their evening to go.

Had she done something wrong?

She could not distinguish if the sharp pain in her breast was disappointment or relief.

Feeling rather in a daze, Amelia mechanically rose and went to her room, ready to divest herself of all this frippery so that she could lie in her bed and stare at the ceiling, wondering what had gone amiss. She was not stupid, but this was a game that was rather beyond her experience. That needling ache stung her heart, a painful tattoo that grew in magnitude as she acknowledged it.

Steeling herself yet knowing she still looked forlorn, she summoned Penny with a light knock upon the adjoining door.

Amelia seated herself upon the stool before the vanity and waited.

And waited.

The girl did not come.

With a slight frown Amelia rose and knocked harder, thinking perhaps Penny had fallen asleep.

There was no answer.

With an ear to the door Amelia detected no sounds from inside the servant’s chamber. Though it was a breach of privacy, she tried the knob. Unlocked. She let herself inside, and found the small room quite empty.

Penny was missing.

 

~//~

 

Sethos had just poured himself another nightcap, this time a healthy dose of brandy, for he knew it was the _only_ way he would get to sleep that night, when there was a sharp knock on his door. For a moment he felt certain he’d invented it out of sheer wishful thinking, but when he did not answer it immediately that insistent rapping began again.

This time it was _his_ hand shaking as he returned his glass to the sideboard.

Somewhere, the gods were _certainly_ laughing.

When Sethos cracked his door it was to find Amelia with fist raised, about to unleash a third onslaught upon the portal. Immediately she straightened, her chin jutting defiantly. “This is not a proposition,” she declared, perhaps with more force than what was necessary.

“What a pity,” he deadpanned, and Amelia’s eyes trailed dipped to the open throat of his shirt briefly before raising again. The urgency of Penny’s disappearance had bolstered her morale, but now a trickle of that absurd mind-boggling heat began to make its way into her brain again.

“We must fetch back Penny,” insisted Amelia, congratulating herself on keeping her tone even. “I require your assistance with my buttons.”

Sethos blinked once, twice, a third time. The meaning of these sentences in conjunction escaped him—perhaps because he found himself particularly fixated on the latter. “I beg your pardon? Penny is _missing_?”

He looked about the common room, as though she might be hiding there behind a chair.

“I fear she’s gone off on her own, as foolish young persons do,” said Amelia. “But I believe I know where she is.”

“And where might that be?”

A silence drew out for three beats before Amelia could utter it. “ _Montmartre_.”

“ _What?”_

“The _Moulin Rouge,_ to be specific, or perhaps _Le Chat Noir._ ”

Dumbfounded, Sethos could not stop shaking his head. “You want me to _undress_ you, and help you dress again, so that we may go to the heart of Bohemia in the wee hours of the morning in search of Penny?”

“Yes, and be quick about it if you please.”

A strangled sound emitted from the depths of Sethos’ throat. “No. I will go with Greaves.”

“And leave me out of it? I think not.”

“You fear I will be unkind to her for abandoning her post and dragging me out in the middle of the night to fetch her?”

“Perhaps.”

“It would be the least she deserves, the silly little chit. What on earth would possess her to do such a thing?”

It was a purely rhetorical question, but Amelia answered anyway, “She wishes to be a singer. Did you know?”

Sethos grumbled something under his breath that was not entirely fit for a lady’s ears.

Well used to such masculine rumblings, Amelia rolled her eyes and spun on her heel. “Come, we haven’t a moment to waste.”

Sethos watched her cross the common room with a mouth suddenly gone dry as the desert. This was actually happening. After his admirable— _nigh super-human_ —feat of self-restraint, she was tempting him all over again. She probably didn’t even _realize._

When Amelia got up the nerve to march over to Sethos’ door and make improper demands she told herself it was for purely practical and therefore forgivable reasons. However, now that Sethos stood behind her in her dressing room, his handsome reflection clear as day in the mirror, the inappropriate nature of her request weighed upon her in full measure.

Rather than immediately reach for her buttons, Sethos rested his large hands upon her bare shoulders, meeting her eyes in the mirror. “You are shaking,” she observed, then immediately wished she’d kept said observation to herself.

“So I am,” admitted the Master Criminal with surprisingly little discomfiture. It seemed he meant to say more, but instead he just shook his head and went to work on the line of tiny jet buttons that fastened the back of her dress.

She would be the death of him, Sethos thought, as one by one he freed her from the confines of this crimson cloth confection. There was the curve of her spine, skin milky pale where the sun never touched, and she had a small mole right above where the neckline of her chemise and the lacings of her corset began. He fought the urge to pause, to touch her, to press his lips to every inch of skin bared by the freeing of her buttons. An _interminable_ amount of buttons, it seemed, and it was a small wonder his fingers worked at all. They came to a stop just above the magnificent curve of her ample derriere.

Long moments passed after he’d finished in which neither of them seemed able to move. He discovered he was staring like some star-struck boy, and he tore his gaze away to find meeting Amelia’s eyes in the mirror wasn’t much better. She’d been watching him with lips parted, her hands clasped in a white-knuckled grip before her.

_Cad. Go on, say it,_ he thought, knowing it was perfectly true.

Instead the words that left her lips in barely more than a whisper were quite different. “The corset too, if you please. I cannot reach it.”

“Of _course_.” His own voice did not fare much better, and it was a small wonder he was able to grip the strings and loosen the lacings.

“My God you are beautiful.” It left his lips before he could stop himself, and the sound of her gasping intake of breath made him curse himself for a fool. Amelia turned to face him, her voluminous red skirts brushing against his legs. He waited for the inevitable denouncement and accompanying slap. At some point he must have closed his eyes, defence against her deliciously loosened dress, soft décolletage displayed to entirely unfair advantage…

He never saw it coming.

Amelia stood on tiptoe and pressed her lips to his, steadying herself with palms upon his chest.

What little strand of sanity that remained in the Master Criminal stretched perilously thin, and _snapped_. Long fingers wound into the base of her coiffure, and his other hand went to the small of her back, holding her to him as he kissed her slowly and thoroughly. What began as exploration with gentle lips soon became an act of plunder with tongue dipping inside her mouth and teeth nibbling at her lower lip. He held her with such force that he squeezed the breath from her, leaving her unable to comment in any capacity but for a wanton exclamation of “ _Oh,_ ” as his lips trailed down her jaw to the curve of her neck.

“In case you failed to notice my brave act of restraint earlier,” he ground out, teeth teasing the lobe of her ear, “Do know that this is not helping in the _least_.”

“It did not escape my notice,” said Amelia breathily, hands curled in the fine fabric of his waistcoat. If not for his grip upon her waist she felt certain she would fall into a puddle upon the floor. “Though I had feared I had put you off somehow.”

Sethos made a low sound in the hollow where her neck met her shoulder. Only belatedly did she realize it was laughter. “ _Put me off._ You silly little… I was being a _gentleman_ , damn it!”

“Oh. How boring!”

“ _Boring!_ ” She could not tell if the Master Criminal was amused or enraged by this outburst. She did know they were moving backwards, slowly but surely, but she was not sure of his intent until strong hands lifted her to sit upon the vanity. Pots of cosmetics and boxes of pins went flying. Her exclamations were devoured as his mouth found hers once more, and the looking glass behind them rocked on its stand as her head bumped back against it.

She had _never_ been in such an improper and compromising situation in her life, and yet when Sethos’ lean body pressed near her treacherous appendages wrapped about him and held him close with the ease of seasoned veterans who knew exactly what they were about.

“Are you bored _now_?” asked the Master Criminal in a low purring growl that inspired a wave of gooseflesh to erupt across her skin. Or perhaps it was his clever fingertips hooking in the strap of her dress and daring to pull it down the curve of her shoulder. Lips followed the path blazed by bold touch, and Amelia hardly recognized herself in the wanton sigh that escaped her lips.

“Decidedly not,” she admitted cautiously.

The Master Criminal straightened, his lean fit form lithe as a panther pressed so close to her own. Gentle lips grazed her temple, and his voice came barely louder than a whisper. “Would it please my lady to send Greaves after the girl, so that you and I may remain here together?”

Amelia drew a shuddering breath, savoring the rasp of his cheek against hers. She feared it would please her _very_ much.

“I think it would be best if the two of us went.”

Sethos was good enough to disguise his disappointment, though it took two tries before he found his voice once more. “Very well. Do you need my help to dress?”

“No, I can manage from here.” If she could manage to calm her heart from attempting to beat out of her chest…

His gaze trailed down over her current costume, as disarranged as it was. “This ensemble is more suited to our destination, you know.”

“Yes, but I cannot move freely in it. I should like to be more mobile when visiting the seedy parts of town.”

Sethos chuckled with ill-concealed delight. “You visit the seedy areas of the city often, Amelia?”

“When my investigations take me there, if you recall.”

“Ah yes, I remember how fearlessly you tread into the darkest heart of Cairo with me. I remember well.”

Sethos helped her back down to terra firma, and made a valiant show of keeping his eyes upon her face, rather than her ample pale bosoms attempting to escape the loosened confines of her dress and corset. Aware of their treachery, Amelia crossed her arms over her chest and looked to the disarray upon the floor. “Oh dear. What a mess we’ve made.”

The Master Criminal bit down on any salacious comment he would have liked to make in that vein. “Make Penny clean it up when we return,” he sniped, suddenly in a bad temper with the girl. “It’s the least she deserves. What the devil was she thinking, the imp?”

“She surely thought this would be her last chance for a bit of amusement before our departure tomorrow.”

“But did she think we would not _notice_ her absence?” The question was more posed to himself than Amelia—but answer it she did with a very pretty and very bright blush. “Oh _damnation_ ,” grumbled the MC under his breath. Apparently they were perfectly transparent that night even to a _seventeen year old girl_. “Go on, get dressed, don’t tarry,” he urged, crossing the room on long legs. “ _Unless you want me to come back here to finish what we started._ ” The last he imparted under his breath, though Amelia could very well guess the gist of his tirade.

She almost wished he would make good on his threat.

 

~//~

 

Though the night had progressed well into the small hours of the morning by the time their carriage arrived in _la Place Pigalle_ the Bohemian quarter still bustled with revelers, their laughter and cries mixing with strains of music drifting from doorways. The bright red lights of the _Moulin Rouge_ glared from above, the iconic windmill turning lazily upon its precipice, lending an unearthly pink hue to the proceedings below.

“Your last chance to turn back, Mademoiselle,” offered Sethos, looking over the crowd with a wary eye.

“Don’t be silly. We’ve come all this way.”

Smiling to himself, Sethos handed Amelia down from the carriage and tucked her arm safely into his. He paid the driver and turned to his companion. “You are not to leave my side. Is that clear?”

Amelia bristled, those dark brows drawing together. “I can’t imagine what kind of trouble you think _I_ would get into here. Besides, I have my parasol.”

“Ha! The prospect is daunting even to me,” he teased.

“Oh, you are such an old hand in places such as this?”

“Hardly. This is my first visit to the _Moulin_ , if you must know.” Though she was glad to hear it, he seemed so at ease with himself here that Amelia found this answer surprised her. But Sethos was a man of the world, she reminded herself—he seemed at home everywhere he went.

The MC purchased two tickets from a tired looking woman behind a window, and they were ushered inside the infamous place of scandalous diversion. Immediately the wall of noise took Amelia aback; laughter, chatter, and boisterous singing. A line of can-can dancers adorned the stage, kicking high over their heads, swishing petticoats in full view.

“Good gad!”

Sethos chuckled, and pulled her out of the way just in time to dodge a flying shoe. They prowled the perimeter of the room, searching faces. “See a copper-bright head of hair anywhere?”

Amelia scanned the crowd again with a discerning eye. “None that are genuine.”

“We’ll try the courtyard.”

Glad to follow him to fresher air, Amelia allowed Sethos to pull her along. As they exited the main building something small and furry darted past her feet, close enough to brush her skirts. “Was that a _monkey_?”

“Indeed. Supposedly they are tame, but I would not touch one.”

“Certainly not!”

The crowd was less stifling in the open air, and less numerous. Again, Penny was nowhere to be found. “Do you think she’s gone in there?” asked Amelia, gesturing with her chin towards a giant plaster elephant that stood in the center of the courtyard.

“I don’t believe women are allowed in the elephant.”

“What nonsense! Lead on.”

Smiling to himself, Sethos did as he was ordered, and laughed up his sleeve as the attendant tried to prevent Amelia from scaling the stairs into the oversized pachyderm. He never stood a chance, poor chap. A short corridor led to a dimly lit room scattered with middle-eastern style divans and bright silk draperies.

“What do you suppose goes on in here?” asked Amelia with a dubious look.

The clang of finger bells answered her question, and a lithe young dancer who could not have been much older than Penny slipped out from behind a screen, commencing to shake her hips in a suggestive if not hypnotic fashion. “You there!” addressed Amelia in French, standing firm. “Have you seen a young woman with bright red-gold hair in here?”

Flabbergasted by the interruption, or by the presence of a nigh-middle-aged woman in sensible dress, the dancer shook her head. “ _Mais non, madame_. No women are allowed here.”

“Ah, indeed.” Amelia began to go on with some friendly advice about the virtues of modesty and a woman’s rights to decency to the young dancer, of which the performer received with growing astonishment.

“I think that’s enough of that, Amelia,” intervened Sethos, trying not to break out laughing as he offered the belly-dancer a generous tip by way of apology. Before she could protest he pulled Amelia onward.

“That poor girl,” she mused as they quit the pachyderm.

“There are worse ways for a young girl to make a living, believe me.”

“She was nearly naked!”

“Nearly being the operative word.”

Amelia sighed heavily. “Perhaps I am a prude.”

“Perhaps,” agreed Sethos with a flash of white teeth. Quickly under that gleaming marcasite gaze he placated, “But it doesn’t make you wrong. The world is wrong, Amelia, but it’s too big to fight and too mean to fix. You’ll drive yourself mad trying.”

Though he led her on, Sethos did not escape Amelia’s searching steely-grey stare. “One must focus her energy on one or two endeavors of good works, I suppose.”

“Lumping _me_ in with that, are you?”

Looking back on earlier that evening, she was not sure she made such a good reformer. Sethos had tried to play the gentleman and _she_ had been the temptress! What a strange turn of events indeed…

But then lust did not seem to be Sethos’ particular vice, despite his passionate nature. It was the habit of taking things that did not belong to him that really wanted curing… Perhaps a woman could consider herself justified in using whatever resources were available to her in accomplishing this task?

Amelia had the grace to laugh at herself, squeezing his arm affectionately. “You have been my most _interesting_ project as of late, I will grant you that.”

They had nearly reached the doorway to re-enter the main building of the _Moulin Rouge_ when Sethos drew her near with an arm about her waist, propping her chin with one masterful finger. “Am I just a _project,_ Amelia?” There was a gleam in those chameleon eyes that signified he did not entirely believe her. “Or dare I hope I have become something more this past week spent in such blissful diversion?”

“This is hardly the place to discuss it.”

“Perhaps not, though you may be sure we will not offend anyone here.”

Amelia looked about the dark courtyard. No one here paid one whit of attention to what could be categorized a _mild_ display, considering the other entertainments on offer.

“Perhaps _I_ am offended,” she parried, and immediately Sethos released her, a sardonic smile curling his well-formed mouth. Those lips, so full and pliable, could be cruel too Amelia realized, when drawn in a grim line.

“And to think you were pliable as warm putty in my arms not but an hour ago.” He imparted this _sotto voce,_ a volume only for her own ears, but still her cheeks suddenly bloomed hot. 

“In a decidedly more _private_ setting than this one,” she reminded him primly, and turned on her heel to go onwards.

“I am going to shake that girl until she is blue,” grumbled Sethos under his breath, meaning Penny.

Or so Amelia assumed.

“You will do no such thing,” quipped Amelia, knowing he would never treat a woman so harshly. She regarded his profile out the corner of her eye, his square jaw and patrician nose, a stern but expressive brow. She felt the faintest inkling of recognition, a strange sense there and gone like ripples in a pool. Curiously, she realized he reminded her of _Emerson_ in his more severe moments, though his bouts of temper could not hold a candle to the Professor’s grumbling rages. It was absurd, really, and Amelia wondered if this association was merely a product of her own frustrated longing. Though she had not thought of him overly much in the past week, she missed Radcliffe and wondered what he was doing in that moment, while she combed the red-light district of Paris in search of a girl who did not have the sense to stay put where it was safe.

There was some irony in this, she knew.

_He’s certainly not thinking about **you,**_ a small voice assured her from the back rows of her mind. Knowing this little voice was more than likely right, Amelia found Sethos’ elbow again. The Master Criminal looked down at her with a rueful quirk of the corner of his mouth, almost as though he had read her thoughts just then. “A man could more easily grasp smoke than hold you, couldn’t he, Amelia?”

The sentiment in that moment seemed unbearably desolate, and she found herself pressing closer to the shelter of his tall form. “The same might be said of _you_ , after a fashion.”

“I am here, within your reach whenever you may decide you want me.”

She did not exactly _like_ the way this sentence made her insides flip two and fro like an unruly band of acrobatic monkeys. She told them to be still.

They did not listen in the slightest.

“For now,” she quipped, as a matter of pure self-preservation.

A bitter laugh fell from those lips. “For now, yes. And for tomorrow, and a year from then. For as long as you would have me, and past that even. Or do you tire of my company already?” He drew to a stop once more, looking down at Amelia with a particularly piercing stare. At this rate they were _never_ going to find Penny.

“Not at all.” She feared she liked it _too much,_ in fact.

Sethos searched her face for signs of placation, but found a stranger creature instead: uncertainty. Thank God—or the Devil—for small miracles. There was hope for him yet.

“Come on,” he urged, pulling her onwards before he kissed her senseless in front of all these people. Though Amelia relished the adventure, at the same time he knew she did not approve of the setting.

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/34100073@N03/44814663024/in/dateposted-public/)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *I couldn't resist also popping in this nifty pic of the Moulin Rouge's elephant. Despite my love for the popular musical, I was picturing something smaller, so when I found this I was kind of blown away. 
> 
> **Thank you so much for reading and reviewing, you make my day! <3<3<3


	12. Love Is A Rebellious Bird

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Le Chat Noir was as unassuming as Le Moulin Rouge was garrulous...

# XII. Love Is A Rebellious Bird

 

 _Le Chat Noir_ was as unassuming as _Le Moulin Rouge_ was garrulous. Little more than a hole in the wall, decorated with all manners of bric-a-brac and boasting a plethora of diminutive tables of which none stood level, it was filled to the gills with bohemians and respectable-sorts all hungry for entertainment. The excitement in the _café chantant_ elevated even further when a pretty young thing with hair the hue of the first rays of sunrise took the stage. She was dressed modestly for this bunch, but there was a twinkle in her eye that imparted to the crowd they were in for some fun.

“Thank goodness.” Amelia started forward through the throng, obviously intent on snatching the girl from the stage. However a hand on her arm thwarted her progress.

“Hold on,” said Sethos in Amelia’s ear. “She’s come this far on her own. We’ll let her have her moment in the sun, I suppose.”

In the gaslight, was more like it.

Amelia paid the MC an incredulous look, but relented as he pulled her to a table and held a chair. “You’ve had a change of heart,” Amelia mused, recalling his severe annoyance of earlier.

“Perhaps I have a confounding weakness for willful women.” Clever fingers toyed with the fine curls of hair at the back of her neck, sending a chill down Amelia’s spine. He only met her look of admonishment with a puckish smile, and dared to hold his arm out in invitation. Well, she supposed if there was anywhere in the world she could indulge in the public display, it was here in the heart of bohemia. She siddled close to his side and let him put his arm around her.

The accompanist picked out the first notes of the number Miss Penny Merriweather intended to sing, and immediately Amelia and Sethos both knew what they were in for.

“Oh dear.”

“Damnation.”

Amelia did not know where the young miss hid it. Though it had been apparent the child possessed an exceptional voice, at no time during her spritely little performances in the background of their daily goings-on did Penny indicate she had a voice for _this._ But there it was, powerful and low, rising with the force of a growing storm. She sang _La Habanera_ from Carmen, and Bizet surely never imagined such a player for the role could be found in such an elfin little thing.

_Love is a rebellious bird that none can tame._

Amelia glanced over at her companion, finding his jaw clenched as he beheld the spectacle on the stage.

_Love is a gypsy’s child, it has never known the law._

With a saucy smile Penny belted the aria skillfully, lifting her arms in the parts where the chorus would usually break in. The crowd of _Le Chat Noir_ was all too happy to play the part.

_If you do not love me, I love you._

_If I love you, guard yourself! Guard yourself!_

At the end of the number the little club burst into applause and howls of approval. A standing ovation spread through the throng like a wave.

“Canny little minx,” grumbled Sethos, standing himself. “Where the devil did she learn _that_?”

Quite bewildered herself, Amelia clapped, and the realization settled over her. This child would be wasted as a maid or a young wife. She _had_ to sing.

Penny received her due graciously, smiling wide as her admirers took her hands to shake or to kiss. One particular table of young gentlemen went beyond even that, urging her over to join them, one even going so far as to pull the girl down into his lap.

“And _now_ we are going home,” growled Sethos at the sight, wading through the crowd to collect his charge.

Penny did not particularly seem to _mind_ the liberty, laughing and speaking animatedly with the group of gentlemen—if they could be called that—who paid her court. She was the center of attention, the belle of the ball, and Amelia almost felt sorry they would put her amusement to an end.

Almost.

The group’s boisterous chatter died as the imposing shadow of Sethos darkened the table. Penny’s face went two shades paler as she realized who stood overhead. “Enjoyed yourself, did you?” he asked of the girl.

“Yes, sir,” she said meekly, eyes turned down.

Sethos fixed his gimlet stare upon the swarthy young man in whose lap she sat. He had the handsome dark looks of someone born of the Mediterranean: Italian, most likely. “Release my ward, if you please.”

The young man did so with no resistance, holding his hands wide in surrender so that Penny could stand. Despite his appearance, his accent was purely Anglo-Saxon. “Begging your pardon, sir. We meant no harm. My name is—”

“I do not give a damn,” interrupted Sethos, grasping the girl’s upper arm. “Come along. Fun’s over.”

 

~//~

 

“What the devil were you thinking?” scolded The Master as their carriage bumped along the uneven lanes of Paris.

“I…was bored,” Penny admitted. “I didn’t think there was a chance I’d be needed anymore tonight, the way you two were mooning at each other...”

Sethos fixed on the first part of her statement, for Amelia’s sake more than his own. “You were _bored._ So you took off across town unaccompanied to _la Pigalle_?”

“I weren’t unaccompanied,” she defended. “Those gentleman took care of me.”

Sethos’ frown was positively thunderous. “You went off with complete strangers.”

“Not _complete,_ ” she insisted. “I seen them in the hotel a few times, in the lobby. They said hello and seemed respectable. I was wandering about and they asked if I wanted to go with them.”

This information caused Sethos’ expression to darken even more, if it was at all possible. “They are staying at the hotel?”

“I reckon so.”

This sent the Master Criminal into a silent study of disapproval for about a mile. Even Amelia felt the discomfort in the enclosed area of the cab, and _she_ had done nothing wrong. When he spoke again the girl started. “What did they say?”

“Nothing.”

“I doubt that. Did they ask about me?”

“No, not really.”

“Did you tell them our plans?”

“No!” She paused a beat. “Well, I don’t _think_ so.”

Sethos leaned forward on his knees, skewering Penny with a particularly malevolent stare. Though he spoke quietly each word bore a point as sharp as any blade. “If you were a man I would have you strung up by your heels.”

For the first time Penny showed an admirable if not infuriating amount of backbone in squaring her chin at the Master Criminal. “I ain’t one of your flunkies.”

“No, but you are in my employ, and you know a damnded sight more than I like to be flitting around with strangers spouting God knows what.”

“Then let me be. I never asked for this.”

“Oh, you prefer the situation I plucked you from then?”

Penny looked away out the carriage window with a huff. “I wish my Da never met you. Mayhap he’d still be alive.”

Only his momentary pause signaled that the girl perhaps had scored a hit. It made his tone sharp as a blade as Sethos remarked, “Your _Da_ had a terrible habit of drinking too much and picking fights in gambling hells, It’s not a habit he learned from me, you can be sure of that.”

Penny flinched as though Sethos had delivered a physical blow. “He weren’t like that when me mam were alive.”

“Yes, well—”

“That’s _quite_ enough of that for now,” interceded Amelia, winning unkind looks from both the MC and his wayward charge. It seemed they had forgotten Amelia was even there. “Penny we are cross because we care about you and the stunt you pulled tonight was very dangerous for an innocent young girl.”

Through watery blue eyes Penny dared pay Amelia a shade of her usual insouciant smile. “I ain’t _that_ innocent, Miss Peabody.”

Amelia did not allow this saucy comment to throw her off her stride. “Be that as it may, if you want to pursue a career with the theatre there are surely better ways to go about it than absconding with strange gentleman to these seedy cafés. We will see you situated in good time.”

With a stormy look Sethos crossed his arms, sitting back in his seat. “We will?”

“ _We will_ ,” insisted Amelia.

A ray of hope entered Penny’s desolate expression. “You know someone in the Opera, ma’am?”

“No, but that hardly matters. We shall demand an audition. Any fool who hears your voice will surely grant you entrance. You will have to work your way up from there, I suppose.”

Despite his ill humour, Sethos could not prevent the corners of his mouth from turning up in a smile. Amelia _would_ barge in and demand such a thing, and who would deny her? Certainly not _him,_ were he in the position of managing the operation.

In an impertinent burst of enthusiasm Penny clasped Amelia’s hands in hers. “Oh Miss Peabody, do you mean it?”

“Naturally, my dear. But can you stand a few more weeks of our company on a nice little holiday in Stamboul? I do not think your duties are so vigorous that you cannot enjoy yourself _a_ _little_.”

Thus placated, the fiery young woman settled back in her seat, though she did not release her hold upon Amelia. “Yes ma’am.”

“Very good.” Amelia patted her hand, and they cut almost a touching scene for the duration of the cab ride to the Grande Hotel du Louvre.

 

~//~

 

“Do you really think they had ulterior motives?” asked Amelia as she and Sethos sat down to their second nightcap of the evening. Penny had been sent to bed, and though she was exhausted Amelia knew she herself was too keyed up for sleep just yet. “Penny is a very fetching young woman.”

“So she is. But in my business, Amelia, it is expedient to suspect everyone.”

“Suspect them of what?”

The Master Criminal leveled a telling stare upon her. “Use that brilliant imagination of yours, Amelia. I am certain you will find the answer therein.”

“Could they have been agents of Scotland Yard?”

This won her a sardonic laugh. “No, those _fine_ gentlemen are the least of my worries, darling.”

“Then who?”

“That’s just the thing. In my world of shadows it is hard to know who your enemies are, until their boot is upon your throat. Let us say my territories and my operations are _covetable_ to a certain sort.”

“But you have ceased operations. Haven’t you?”

“For the time being, yes, I have kept that promise to you Amelia. It doesn’t mean the rest of the world has paused. One might even infer my lack of activity has signaled to others that this would be an opportunity to move in, as it were.”

Amelia sat up straighter on the settee. “Are you in danger?”

Those expressive lips curled in a derisive smile. “Perpetually, should anyone discover who I really am.” He looked down at himself, and then to her. “This is the longest appearance in public my true self has made since I was a very young man, Amelia. I had thought that in itself would serve as disguise enough, but perhaps I was wrong.”

Amelia found herself reaching for his hand on the settee cushion between them. “Then you should leave this life.”

Sethos wove his long fingers with her own, his dexterous thumb drawing maddening circles upon the back of her hand. “Give me a good reason to, Amelia, and I will. With nary a look back.”

“And what would you consider a good reason?”

“You know.”

“A lady is wise not to make such inferences. If he means them, a man should say them aloud.”

A long pregnant moment passed between them during which Sethos considered going down on one knee before her and making his declaration. But somehow this didn’t seem the time or place. They were exhausted and a bit cross from their little adventure across town. There was a glint in her steely grey eyes that signaled she might like to engage in an argument more than a sentimental scene. He was the sort of man who liked the odds to weigh in his favor more than that.

“I believe I _have_ said them,” insisted Sethos rather petulantly, looking away. How many times must he tell this woman that he loved her, that he wanted her by his side? In that moment he wondered if she liked to hear it just so she could have the pleasure of putting him at arm’s distance again.

Amelia, however, was not so certain. Did he mean to keep her as his lover? Or would he care to honor her with the title of _wife._ Was it even _possible?_ Under what pseudonym could they be joined? Becoming man and wife under a false _nom de guerre_ seemed not much of an unbreakable bond at all.

_I won’t let you make me your mistress._

Somehow, she could not quite bring herself to say it aloud. Because it was improper or simply not true, she was too tired to say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to admit that part is this chapter is also a fannish rendition from a scene in Meredith Duran's _Wicked Becomes You._ I love her books, and rather than a Regency flick this one was set in Belle Epoque Paris, which was just tooooo much fun. I highly recommend her. XD
> 
> Thank you for reading and as ever, I love to hear your comments!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments are always appreciated! :)


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